


Our Bones Keep Looking Back

by KaelsMiscellany



Series: A Hush Sublime [3]
Category: Haven (TV)
Genre: 1920s, 1950s, 1970s, Because it might be, Can Lucy/alcohol be a pairing?, F/M, Gen, Most of the OFCs are just other Audrey incarnations BTW, Past Fic, more tags to be added later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-08-24 03:42:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8355664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaelsMiscellany/pseuds/KaelsMiscellany
Summary: The Present is happening, the Future is unknown, but the Past is there for anyone to read should you chose to.ORone shots about Audrey's past lives, Duke, Nathan, and all the rest





	1. Sarah, Duke I; 1955

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to part three-ish! 
> 
> Title comes from "The One Moment" by OK Go
> 
> As the summary suggests these are all just little stories about things that've happened pre-FK that I felt deserved expanding on/written.
> 
> And unlike other parts of this 'verse I'm willing to take prompts for this, so go ahead and [drop me anything you might want to know more about](http://kaelthewriting.tumblr.com/ask). As a note I do already have six other stories written up, so if your prompt fits in with one of those I'll just mention you in the AN.

Duke’s never been able to sleep soundly on the _Amphitrite_ , too many years of ship life have attuned him to the slightest changes in sound, ears always straining slightly for the bell marking the hours and shifts. Yet he’s unwilling to move onto land, he might have set up shop in Haven, but he has no desire to move back into it, even after a few decades.

So it’s not really any surprise his ears catch a creaking of boards when there shouldn’t be any. The hammock moves as he sits upright but it’s too well worn to make even a whisper. And unlike whomever’s on his boat he knows which boards creak and which don’t. Standing he slowly goes over to the desk, grabbing his pistol and checking the chambers; he knows it’s loaded, but he’s feeling paranoid enough to look.

Gun in hand he creeps to his door, listening as the stranger gets closer as well. There are odd pauses however, as if whomever it is is unsure of where they’re going. Doesn’t mean he relaxes though.

He stops at the door, off to the side in case whomever it might be decides to shoot through the wood. He rests his hand on the knob, _one_ , he counts quietly to himself, _two_.

There’s a knock on his door.

Well _that_ leaves him utterly confused. He has a quick debate on whether to open the door or not, opening it means he sees who his nighttime visitor is, closed means that there’s there’s an element of surprise if it goes south. In the end he chooses to keep the door shut, and calls out. “Who is it?” If they don’t mean harm, well then they’ll answer.

“Duke Crocker,” even muffled by the wood it’s hard to mistake that prim, precise tone for anyone else. “Open this door.”

Deciding he might as well, after all she’d probably come to him for a _reason_ , hopefully to not give him another one of her haranguings, he finally opens the door. “Sarah Vernon,” his own tone becomes more clipped and formal. Sarah had nothing on the Royal Navy after all. “What do you want?”

She certainly looks less put together than usual, her clothes are dirty and there’s even a _tear_ in her stockings, and he’s pretty sure he sees a streak of mud on her cheek, even her heels look ragged; she smells of dirt too, and _blood_. A warning sign in and of itself that this isn’t the usual encounter; Sarah has never been anything but precise, in her appearance, her work, her social life; sometimes he wonders if maybe she’s some robot from the future, here for some nefarious reason.

Clearly he’s been watching too many science fiction movies. Then again in a word of werewolves, fallen angels, and people who could do _magic_ a robot doesn’t sound all that far fetched.

“I need your help.” With those four words any and all fanciful thoughts leave him. Sarah, asking for his help. It’s certainly a shock.

He narrows his eyes, hand on his gun tightening just a little. “With what?” He’s not Nathan who seems to worship the ground she walks on, it’s ridiculous, or the police who are more than relieved when she steps in to help those who need it. He’s here because he doesn’t have to hide what he is, because even though Nathan hates it with a grinding passion—and Duke will gladly rub it in every chance he gets—Duke can get away with his smuggling out in the open. Haven gives him more freedom than anywhere else the world, even if that freedom apparently has a price; he blocks off those old memories before they even have the chance to raise her ghost.

“There’s a body,” she might be shorter than him, but her poise makes her seem taller—even in her current state she still hasn’t lost that. “I, I,” she takes a deep breath. “I would like your help to hide it.”

If her request for help was shocking, this, this is _staggering_. “A body? Why don’t you just call the police, let them deal with it.” Knowing the grapevine it’ll some how get to Nathan and he’ll pull himself out of bed far too early and be annoyed and frustrated, and Duke’s all for that.

“Because,” and _there’s_ her sharp edges, the ones it seems almost everyone else is blind too. “I killed him.”

Tonight is just not going to be Duke’s night. Yet he finds himself heaving a sigh. “Fine. Just a minute.”  He closes the door on her face, finding himself smiling a little at the thought of her indignant expression, and pulls on some clothes, ones he won’t mind getting dirty and bloody. He’s not even sure why he agreed to this, but now that he has he should see it through.

Sarah’s standing in exactly the same spot when he opens the door, it makes him feel like he’s stepped into a Marx brother’s film—he’s not sure if he’s Harpo or Zeppo though—and he gives a quiet huff. “Come on.”

“Shouldn’t I be leading? After all I know where we need to go.” Only Sarah.

The ship’s hallway is cramped, but Duke manages to sketch a serviceable mocking bow. “Apologies, after you ma’am.”

She narrows her eyes at him, clearly debating the worth of going at him. But if she’s going to be like that well then he sees no reason to help her, let her bury her own bodies. A second later she passes him, head held high and jibe not taken.

It’s low tide and the _Amphitrite_ is a few feet below the dock, Duke makes the leap easily, and decides to be an actual gentleman and help Sarah up as well, one good turn and all that shit. She accepts his arm with a quiet thanks and he’s almost taken off guard by how light she is, how...delicate her arm feels in his.

“Be right back,” he tells her quietly, before jumping back onto his boat. He grabs a tarpaulin, some rope and two shovels. Sarah takes them without comment when he hands them up to her. Quickly rejoining her they being to make their way.

When they reach the parking lot for the marina he’s surprised her car’s not there. “Did you walk here?” In her heels no less, he finds himself vaguely impressed, certainly her feet must be killing her.

“I did,” she agrees.

“We’ll take my car,” he responds without much thought. It’s no skin off his nose if they drive there, and in fact it’ll probably be better, getting there faster means more time to work.

He ignores the flash of relief on her face and just walks. Opening the trunk he takes the things from her and shoves them in haphazardly. He lets himself wonder how long his car’s going to smell like blood after tonight. “Where to?”

The directions she gives are as precise as he expected them to be, and for the first few minutes they drive in silence. But then he can’t hold back the question any longer. “Why’d you do it?” Killing someone just seems so...messy for her, even if it might have been in cold blood.

Sarah draws herself up, her face looking straight ahead out the windshield, not even sparing him a glance. “Because he gave me no choice. He was a threat to my patients, to Haven, and to myself. I did what I had to and I have no regrets.”

Duke’s glad he has to pay attention to where he’s going, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to stop staring at her.

Because at that moment, he can see it. The reason Nathan’s head over heels for her, why Haven welcomed her with open arms when she stuck her nose in it’s business. She stands firm. _This much and no more_ , her words say in undercurrents.

If Sarah Vernon will not move, then you’d better find another way around her.

He finds he loves her, just a little, for it.

There’s no urge to steal her away, to make her his own. And he’s not the sort to take when she’s already in a relationship, he wouldn’t do that to anyone. He knows she’s in one, he can smell it on her, whomever her paramore is the scent teases him in familiarity, but Sarah’s scent twists it awry, leaves him unable to pinpoint it—it didn’t help that her own scent had changed slightly since she’d arrived.

But that doesn’t stop her certainty from drawing him in, kind of against his own will.

He pulls to a stop in front of the power plant, no wonder she’d come to him at the black end of night. “Stay here, I’ll get the body.” It probably won’t be all that hard to smell if he focuses on it.

But Sarah gets out, anger in her eyes. “Crocker I will not sit by, I will do my own damned work thank you very much.” While no one would consider Sarah soft spoken, Duke’s pretty sure this is the first time he’s heard her curse, even if it’s such a small one.

It might just be her pride talking, but well, he’s not going to say no. Carrying a body on your own is hard work, especially if it’s already in rigor mortis.

Since she seems intent on pulling her own weight he lets her take the lead, tarp and rope in his hands.

They move quietly even though there’s not much in the way of staff at night here, and with them sticking to the grounds they’re not likely to run into anyone anytime soon. Which doesn’t stop it from being a good idea.

When they reach the body, sooner than Duke expected to actually, he takes a moment to look at it, to see if this man was someone he knew. It is, if distantly.

“Mitchell Driscoll?” It’s not quite disbelief in his voice, but there’s certainly incredulity. Sure the man could be a bit strong minded in his beliefs, his cousin _was_ the current Reverend at Good Shepherd, but no one would ever call him a _threat_. Yet he’s dead, bullet between the eyes, one shot—so even Sarah can make death clinically neat—the gun she’d used laying on the ground next to him.

Her hands take the tarp from him and lays it out. “He called me a plague and a curse,” there’s real anger in her voice. “He told me he’d been given a vision of a Haven free from the supernatural that blighted it. That if they repented then _surely_ God would cleanse them of their affliction. He tried to kill me.”

Duke’s not really one for religion, at least anymore, even if he knows a freaking angel. Still the words chill him, just enough. Haven’s always been an oddly tenuous place, long swaths of relative peace and quiet, followed by a few months of varying chaos.

Maggie—he tries to keep his heart from aching, but it’s no use—was at the center of that last collection of months, and now it seems Sarah’s the focus this time; it does seem odd that it’s always an outsider her who comes, and not someone _from_ Haven.

“Crocker,” Sarah’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts.

He gives an annoyed shake of his head, foolish of him to get distracted like that. “You take the shoulders, I’ll get the legs. On three,” once they’ve both good a good hold he counts out and they lift the body up and put it on the tarp. He makes quick work of bundling and tying it up. He also makes sure to grab her gun.

“We’ll take him out to the Brambles.” It’s the second best place to hid a body; right now they don’t have the time to get to any one of the islands along the coast.

Sarah nods as they lift the body up again.

He finds himself breathing a little easier when the body’s tucked away in the trunk. Not so easy trying to explain why you were carrying a body shaped thing.

Luckily they’re already close to the Brambles, so they don’t have far to travel. “We’ll have to hike in a ways, better hiding spots, too close to the road and rain might wash him out."

“If this were a normal situation I’d be questioning why you know so much about hiding bodies,” the amusement in her voice catches him off guard. Sarah Vernon, _joking_ with him?

With a shake of his head he slings the body over his shoulder, glad he doesn’t have to ask her to take the shovels. “You’d be surprised how easy it is to learn.” Maggie didn’t like to do it often, but sometimes someone just had to...disappear—he still remembers where each one is buried, just like he’ll remember where this one is.

Sarah doesn’t respond, her attention on her footing and where she’s stepping. Which means Duke can focus on scents, try to find a spot where there’s more animal than human.

“Here,” he finally says. It’s a tiny open space, and the tree roots they’ll probably run into won’t be a breeze to deal with, but there’s not even a trace of human, he and Sarah are the first to come here in a long time.

He leans the body against a tree and is unsurprised when Sarah hands him one of the shovels before starting to dig herself.

They don’t have to dig deep, but it still takes time. Part of him curses the fact that he hadn’t grabbed his watch, and he doesn’t have a good view of the sky either. Still, it has to be getting close to dawn when they finally finish it all. He scuffs the dirt with his feet, trying to make it look less unearthed.

“Thank you,” again Sarah catches him off guard, you’d think he’d be getting used to it by now.

“What’s a body between people who don’t get along?” As a joke it falls flat, but it’s all he can manage, saying ‘you’re welcome’ just feels too strange. “Now come on, let me take you back to your apartment so you can get a _little_ sleep,” even a half an hour’s got to better than staying up as long as she has, especially with her being a nurse.

Her nod is small as she accepts his hand down. “I would appreciate that. And Duke,” her saying his name stops him just as much as her placing her hand on his wrist. “Don’t tell Nathan, please? It,” she takes a deep breath. “It would break him.” Duke bites his tongue, it should be a lie, but she believes it.

“Sarah,” he looks at her in askance. “I helped you bury the body, why would I, in the name of all that’s holy, tell Nathan? Sure as hell don’t want to go to prison for you.” For Maggie perhaps he would have, hell he _had_ gone to prison once because of Evie.

Her smile is wan. “Sorry, I forgot how much of a scoundrel you are,” but there’s none of the familiar bite to her voice.

Using her grip on his wrist he pulls her back into walking, time’s a wastin. “Keep this up and I’ll start thinking you’ve gone soft on me.”

It actually gets something like a laugh out of her. “Perish the thought Crocker.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you in a week back in _Tear up the sun_! And two weeks back here.


	2. Mara; 1600, 1602, 1685

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Mara quotes in the beginning here is "I've said before that every craftsman" by Rumi.

Mara stretches slightly in her tree, giving her eyes a brief break before she continues her reading. It’s her newest book, and while Farsi isn’t as hard as some languages, she still has to work at it.

“...Dear soul, if you were not friends

with the vast nothing inside,

why would you always be casting your net

into it, and waiting so patiently?

 

This invisible ocean has given you such abundance,

but still you call it "death",

that which provides you sustenance and work.

God has allowed some magical reversal to occur,

so that you see the scorpion pit

as an object of desire,

and all the beautiful expanse around it,

as dangerous and swarming with snakes.”

A soft _kreah_ interrupts her at the mention of snakes. She looks up with a smile, Roshanak stretches her wings and opens her beak again. “Silly bird,” she chides, “it is definitely not feeding time, even if you do like snakes.” A surprise considering ossifrage eat carrion. Still she reaches up and scratches Roshanak on her chest, enjoying the softness of her feathers. It earns Mara a happy chirrup, “greedy.” But she hardly means it, all of her pets are greedy things, her mama says that she spoils them too much; but why shouldn’t she?

Under her the tree pulses, as if hearing the thought of her mother. It wouldn’t surprise Mara if it had, this is her mother’s garden after all, and one of Mara’s favorite reading spots, even with whole worlds she could lose herself in.

She shifts again, this time to get an itch on her back with the knotted branch that’s propping her up. “Now hush, and let me read.” Roshanak settles, but clearly wishes Mara would just feed her.

Roshanak’s not the only one apparently, because before Mara can even find her spot on the page her stomach grumbles. With a sigh she tucks her book in between two branches, and twisting reaches out. It’s a stretch to reach the nearest fruit, but her fingers soon curl around pale gold skin and pluck, the branches around her shivering and trembling.

Even though the skin feels like leather it breaks between her teeth like marzipan, the dark purple flesh underneath filling her mouth with it’s sweet-strange taste—almost like xocolātl, but not quite. Clear juice runs down her arm and she quickly chases after it with her tongue.

She’s so focused on eating that she doesn’t hear footsteps approaching. “There you are dear apple.” Popping the core into her mouth Mara finishes the fruit, the seeds breaking between her teeth creating sparks of bitterness, and looks down at her mama.

“Yes mama?” She knows there’s a ‘family’ meeting today, so perhaps her mama is saying goodbye.

The tree shifts as Conli leans into it, shaping itself to her to make her more comfortable. “Would you like to come with me? Your aunt and uncle keep asking after you, I thought they might like to hear of your adventures in your own words.”

“Yes!” Mara rarely leaves her mama’s home, she doesn’t really need to, there are whole worlds for her here, yet any chance to see the outside world is one she welcomes. But it also doesn’t escape her notice that mama doesn’t mention Death, mama’s twin; then again Mara has noticed she rarely does.

She doesn’t even wait for her mama to pull away from the tree before scrambling down. Holding out her arm she braces her shoulder. “Come Roshanak.” It’s always breathtaking in a way to watch one of her birds launch themselves into the air. Soon the ossifrage’s weight rests on her forearm and she begins making her way to her room.

Once Roshanak’s back in the aviary Mara tears through her clothes, wondering what might best suit. The white or gold lace kerchief? The gold always looked striking against her favorite green dress, but perhaps she should wear her new blue dress, which would suit the white better. Should she wear jewels? All of her dresses were long enough that she could forgo shoes, which she prefered, but perhaps she would need them. Should she attempt cosmetics?

“Mara? We should leave soon,” her mother’s voice calls out from around her empty doorway, giving her privacy.

“I don’t know what to wear?” The laugh mama gives Mara feels is slightly undeserving, _she_ never has this problem.

But her mother enters. “Let’s sort this out then.”

And ten minutes they’re leaving, the woods around them as peaceful as always as they step into them. Mama whistles and soon her horse is trotting up to them. With ease mama lifts her up onto the gelding’s back, green skirts bunching up around her waist as she sits astride. Mama leaps on and they’re off.

Mara can never contain her laughter when they move from the ground to the open air, even if the wind tears at her hair, ruining all the work gone into it.

Soon enough, far too soon, they’re descending back to the ground, they’re on the outskirts of a city. Somewhere in Russia from the sound of it, and Mara avidly watches the people as they move inwards.

They stop at an inn, one with three horses already tied to the hitching post, one red, one black, one pale.

Feeling shy Mara trails after her mother as she enters, the place is empty of people, only her aunt, uncle, some cousins, and Death.

The first time Mara had been allowed to come to one of these family gathering she’d been entranced by them, their strange crystalline hair, skin a patchwork of colors, features that spoke of no sex but Death’s own, eyes like green fire, eerie and bright. She’d asked her mother about it and been told that even though she was immortal, part of her was still human, and humans always yearned for Death.

“This cannot be our little Mara,” Auntie War’s booming voice draws her from her thoughts. “Why,” Mara manages a smile as her aunt comes to them, her robust and plump frame in men’s clothes. “The last time we saw you you barely reached my knee.”

She lets herself be swept up into her aunt’s hug. “It’s me auntie, it’s just been a long time,” nearly seventy years, long enough for Mara to change from girl to woman.

“Heh, it has. Shame on you Conli for keeping her away so long,” War’s jibe is good natured, but mama still gets that stuffy look on her face. “Come, come, let’s see if any of your cousin’s remember you.” Mara lets herself be swept away, the room’s small so it’s not as if she can loose her mother easily.

After a whirlwind of introductions—and these are not even all of her cousins—Mara feels exhausted. She goes to the table laid out with food and drink and piles a plate high, taking a cup of wine as well. Tucking herself into a corner she eats, and watches her family interact. How uncle Famine, his appearance always gaunt, but also currently African if she has it right, never touches the food, and speaks quietly, as if he expects spies and eavesdroppers. Aunt War seems to be everywhere at once, always booming and enthusiastic.

Her own mama flits from conversation to conversation like a bird hunting for seed. And all her cousins intermingle freely, catching up and sharing stories, it makes her feel a bit like an outsider—they meet each other constantly while she usually only has her pets for company.

And above them all, rarely speaking, is Death.

The wine has warmed her a little, helping ease her nerves. As she relaxes against the back of her chair she notices that she’s not the only one keeping herself slightly apart.

He’s handsome with his sandy hair and bright blue eyes, there’s a warmth to his skin that speaks of much time spent outside, he’s older than her—then again all her cousins are—but that hardly means much for people who live centuries. He lounges, almost indolently, against one of the wooden pillars, a coin dancing between his fingers.

Usually Mara can tell if a cousin is from her aunt or her uncle by looking at them, even if their appearances weren’t similar there’s an air about them that speaks of their parent. Yet she gets no such indication from him, and she finds herself intrigued. Seeing no reason not to she leaves her seat and goes to him. “Hello, I’m Mara,” he must have come in later because she doesn’t remember him from the hoard her aunt had whisked her through. She holds her hand out.

A broad smile crosses the man’s face, and he gives a very courtly bow, scooping her hand up with one of his own at the same time and laying a soft kiss to the back—something like a nervous giggle leaves her. “And I am William, and might I say Mara, that of those assembled, you may be, by far, the most beautiful.”

It’s a lie—her own mama, and Death, outshine them all—yet Mara still finds herself blushing and feeling warm pleasure in her chest. “Thank you kindly William,” it might be a lie, but she’s been taught to accept compliments with grace. Extracting her hand she dips into a little curtsy.

“I don’t think we’ve ever met before,” she’s sure there’s some human etiquette that says they shouldn’t be speaking to each other until someone else has introduced them, but then again they’re not human; and the rules are different.

William smiles again. “I don’t come to family gatherings often, I prefer to explore the world.”

She smiles back, because she loves talking to others people about their experiences in the world. In a year or two mama said she’d start taking Mara out on her ventures, and Mara wants to know everything she can. “I’d love to hear about your travels. Would you like me to bring you some wine?”

His smile somehow widens and she can see the corners of his eyes crinkle. “I would love that.”

-

Mara’s heart pounds in her chest as she makes her way to the door of her mama’s domain. The door opens with a touch and she steps out into the woods, on her own.

On the other side of the small clearing is William, she races to him, letting him sweep her up into a hug. “I can’t believe you convinced me to do this,” she hisses it, but there’s laughter in her voice. She’d never even thought before to go against her mother’s wishes, yet here she is, leaving her home for who knows how long.

He keeps carrying her as he enters the woods proper and towards a normal horse tethered to a tree. “I didn’t convince you Mara, I just helped you make a choice you should have long ago.”

She knows he’s right, but in a way it’s still frightening. Sewn into the lining of her dress is most of her jewelry. It would make walking harder until she got them out, but it would be worth it.

Perhaps the hardest part was leaving all of her pets. She’d raised most of them from their respective childhoods and bonded with all of them. But William had pointed out that taking care of them on the road would be much harder to do, and that it would be better if she left them for her mother to look after until she came back. She’d taken the time to at least give each a tearful goodbye.

He sets her on the horse and hoists himself up behind her. It’s so reminiscent of her previous experiences, that she’s almost disappointed when the horse doesn’t take the leap to start traveling through the skies.

William seems more than happy to let the horse have it’s way, she can see his hands keeping a firm grip on the reins, but his head ducks down and he places a soft kiss to the nape of her neck. The sensation makes her giggle. “William.” Mara doesn’t know if she’s protesting or encouraging him.

“I finally have you all to myself Mara, it’s an...enthralling experience. I’m not sure I’ll be able to hold back tonight.” Something in her thrills at his words. She knows all about sex, her mother is _Life_ after all, and how to prevent children; but she’s never actually experienced it. Until now she and William have only exchanged kisses.

“Maybe,” she curses her hesitation, she’s a _woman_. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

She can feel his smile against her neck. “It’s a promise,” he agrees and she finds herself thrilling at the experience. “But until then why don’t we talk.”

“About what? Where we’d like to go first?” She certainly has ideas. Persia has always fascinated her with it’s writing. Or perhaps one of the western lands that she’s only heard about in her mother’s tales—the place she was born.

“We can talk about that soon enough,” William agreed. “But I want to discuss something else first.” The horse finally breaks out of the woods, and William kicks it into a gallop. “What do you know about aether?”

-

Despite there most likely being an ocean between them now—that bull she’d convinced to attack William had gored him pretty well, and he couldn’t jump from place to place like his now-father could—she still fears that William will just appear behind her and smile.

But she’d escaped, fled from France to England, and from there on a ship bound for what the Europeans were calling the ‘new world’.

That had been months ago now, and soon the captain claimed they would make land. Mara knows she isn’t the only one hoping for that prospect, all of the passengers are. She’d made at least made acquaintance with each, and talked with them often when she couldn’t stand being alone anymore. The new world was a beacon of hope for all of them, and they all wanted to start over.

Mara didn’t quite know what she would do once they’d landed. She wouldn’t be able to blend in with the various natives, despite her burning curiosity to learn about them and their cultures. But if she stuck to the European settlements it made it more likely that William would find her. Then again, with the aether bond he would find her no matter what.

Yet she doesn’t have much of a choice. Perhaps one of the farther flung settlements instead of one of the English colonies. She has enough money that gaining passage would not be a problem.

A shout from the crow’s nest and soon the deck is flooded with people, all rushing to be the second to spot land.

Far more time than even Mara expects passes, enough that everyone begins to grow discouraged, perhaps the man was wrong. But as people begin to drift away Mr. Cooper calls out and points to a dark streak on the horizon.

Land.

Mara just prays that here she’ll be able to escape William.


	3. Nathan; 1855

Nathanael floats through this small town somewhere in Saxony—it would be the thing of a second to know exactly where he was, but it hardly mattered at the moment—everywhere humans, and their supernatural neighbors, bustle to and fro. Their wants and desires fill the air, pulling at Nathanael, asking, unknowingly, for intervention.

But he holds himself back, he can resist now when before he couldn’t; following a human around giving them what they wanted. He’d hated it, why should he cater to such petty beings? Ones who couldn’t even look past themselves.

Yet resisting one’s nature was hard, even after the Fall, the War.

It’s taken him thousands of years, but he can just let them pass by, they tug at him like he’s seen beggar children do to adults, but like those adults he can ignore them, or give in as he pleases. In a way the freedom of it is far headier than siding with Samael had.

Wants and desires change the closer he gets to the market, just another breeze to these people, nothing more. He doesn’t know how they can be so blind. Put things right in front of their faces and even then they will not see.

There’s more than usual, both people and wants. And as he listens to their base conversations he hears mention of Lent and Shrove Tuesday. He sneers, their blind faith disgusting him.

There are new things in the air too, the smells of the things humans eat, both raw and cooked, he floats the opposite direction when incense reaches him from the church, dung from the live animals, and the smells of humanity in general. With so many conflicting thoughts he should be drifting the other way, lest he be snared.

Yet he lingers, he’s heard his fellow fallen talk about human food, how they’d feasted in the halls of this king, or that emperor, and how magnificent it had been. While Nathanael has taken on a corporeal form from time to time he doesn’t see the appeal, sure it might taste good, but why do it? Humans needed it to survive and he guess it tasting good made it easier to consume. But why bother with such variety?

Descending to the ground Nathanael tucks himself into an empty alley, it the work of a thought to give himself a body and clothe himself to blend in. The male form is the one he prefers when taking on a human shell—it hasn’t escaped any of his fellows notice that the male humans seem to be dominant, and it’s easy to take advantage of that. The air is cool around him and a coat appears on his shoulders.

 _Now_ the bustle of humanity sees him, dodging out of his way, or around him; merchants shouting at him to come look at their wares; beggars calling out for coin he doesn’t have.

Even in this mortal shell his senses are still his own, in the Green, beyond the pens he can see a stage being built, and there are cooks selling their goods, smaller stages are everywhere too, children in front of them gleefully watching the stories the puppeteers are showing them.

“ _Apfelküchle_ , apple pancakes!” A woman’s voice calls out, accompanied by a warm, sweet smell the likes of which Nathanael has never experienced before.

She’s a burly woman, large ruddy arms easily pushing the small cart in front of her. She’s dressed a bit more finely than the human’s around her, with pale blonde hair braided and pinned to her head, but that doesn’t stop a swarm of people from flocking to her, coins and food exchanging hands almost faster than human eyes could probably see.

Despite what’s probably better his better judgement he joins them, something about her seems familiar to him, although he can’t recall ever coming here before. No matter, he’s sure by the time he reaches her he’ll have figured it out, and she’ll probably be out of her goods; although he’s curious enough that he finds he hopes that’s not the case. The people who’ve bought their ‘pancakes’ leave with almost blissful looks on their faces as they eat.

Food can’t be _that_ good, there is no possible way. Humans might be favored, but they couldn’t possibly create something that might surpass the greatest of angelic accomplishments. Could they?

The woman’s smile is impossibly broad as he finally reaches her. There are only two or three of these ‘pancakes’ in her cart left. “Two thalers,” she tells him.

He reaches into his pocket and while he’s never seen a thaler, he knows what he creates will be good enough to pass any human test. Even with his curiosity he does his best not to touch her as he drops the coins in her hand and accepts one of the pancakes from her.

“Careful,” she warns. “Still hot.” He can tell, the warmth of the food sinking into his shell, something sticky hitting his palm.

Inclining his head in thanks, even in this shell speaking would do great harm to all around him—he might see humans as lesser, but he had no desire to tear them down like Lilim did, more than certain humans would bring about their own downfall eventually—he leaves her. Even with his eyes glued to this strange food he dodges everyone around him as he goes to find a spot where he can try this in peace.

The shade of the building makes the air around him even cooler, but it’s easily ignored.

Unable to even try and describe what he was about to eat—true he could probably name it’s component parts, if he’d seen what went into them, and he knew of apples, if not of ‘pancakes’, but he also knew none of those would accurately describe this item—he brought it up to his face and inhaled. Sweet, with a bite of something not as sweet yet intriguing.

With a huff that made the air ripple around him, he stopped prevaricating and bit into it.

It tasted, surprisingly, much like it’d smelled. And yet it was somehow more. There was the sweet and the spice, but also warmth, and a weightiness from what must be the ‘pancake’ part, and a soft bite from what might have been apples.

Perhaps his fellows had a point, and there _was_ something to human food; he certainly wouldn’t say no to another bite.

Yet as he raise his hand to take another the world around him went black.

The darkness around him pulsed white and pale, _choose_ , a voice echoed from nowhere. And before him lay six objects.

A smooth stone, a strange thing with a curved band and two fuzzy lumps at either end, a strip of fabric, a two humped lump of something, and a pair of thick gloves, and a sword.

 _Choose_ , the voice—one he felt certain he had heard once before—said again.

“Choose what?” His own voice sounded different, sounded _less_ somehow; he found it frightened him more than the voice.

 _Choose_ , so there was to be no explanation, he just had to choose blindly and hope for the best. An idea that sparked him with anger, he was done with blind faith and yet he for reasons unknown found himself forced into its confines once more.

With narrowed eyes he placed a hand a short span above one of the items, closed his eyes, and focused. Yet he discovered nothing new, when he should have at least discovered _what_ each thing was.

Anger flared in him, wishing this voice would materialize so that he could _face_ it, he might not be as strong as an archangel, or any other of the higher choirs, but his skills were nothing to laugh about. And it should be quick work to deal with this wretched thing.

Seeing as he had no choice he looked at the items again, well the lumpy object and the band he ruled out, better to stick things he _knew_.

There was nothing exciting about the cloth, just a strip of some fabric about as wide as three fingers side by side, and long enough to wrap around his hands at least thrice. Same with the gloves, no adornment, just another item of human clothing. The stone as well, it looked as if it had been plucked from a riverbed.

The sword on the other hand was clearly angelic, like the one he himself had wielded many times. His hand hovered of it for a long while, and yet...

Despite his dislike of humans he found himself gravitating more towards the strip and the gloves. For he did appreciate work, and that would have gone into both items. His hand hovered over both of them, unwilling to touch in case that indicated choice.

Cloth or gloves? Cloth or Gloves? The cloth could be used for many things, yet in a way there was something more appealing in the gloves, the way they’d been made to do one function, and _well_.

He snatched them up, nothing happened.

“There,” he thundered, although it lacked it’s usual intensity, as he pulled the gloves on.

 _So be it_.

“You alright sir?”

Nathanael opens his eyes to see a gangly man crouched beside him, pale blond hair sticking up every which way. “Were you accosted? Do you have your purse still on you? Or perhaps I should take you to a doctor if you are ill?”

The prattling is getting to him, and even though Nathanael knows it will be bad he speaks. “Enough, I’m fine.”

The man recoils, but is otherwise unharmed and Nathanael finds himself stymied. The man should be dead, yet he is clearly still alive. “I’m only trying to be charitable,” he huffs.

Having no real response to that Nathanael presses his hands down to help himself sit up. Except, except.

He can’t feel his hands, nor the cloth of his clothes, or even the cool air around him.

He needs to get rid of this human. “Thank you,” the words feel strange on his tongue, he’s surprised he can speak them at all. “But I don’t need your help.”

The man narrows his eyes for a moment, “alright. Then the Lord’s blessing be upon you this day sir.” The words don’t sting like they should, or perhaps he just can’t _feel_ it. But the man’s gone.

Now that he’s alone Nathanael takes a deep breath, eager to shed this shell and be done with this strangeness.

But just like with his hands he doesn’t. Even though it should be an easy thing to shed this shell and return to his true form he can’t. He’s...stuck.

His vision waivers and instead of the sky and the roofs he can see the end of the alleyway and the green beyond it. Looking down he sees he’d sat up like he’d wanted to earlier.

So he’s trapped in this shell somehow, and he can’t _feel_.

And not just that, he finds his other senses have been dulled as well, the world is drab around him, instead of the colors he remembers only a few minutes ago. He inhales, and while he can smell dung and some other foods nothing of the array he’d inhaled earlier reaches him. The conversations of the people in the square are only a murmuring ocean, all the voices blending together. He’d have to buy something to try taste, but he can guess that it’s as dampened as the others.

And yet, and yet, alongside those losses is another one.

He cannot feel the humans anymore. Just like he apparently can’t feel anymore, the constant barrage of wants and desires has left him.

And he had thought resistance true freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my fellow American readers I hope your Thanksgiving is a safe and happy one!


	4. James, Lucy, Duke; 1983. James, Jennifer; 2011

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little different from the rest, in that it actually has a flash-forward; which I never originally intended, but also felt right for the story itself.
> 
> Also TW for mentions of abuse and death.

Lucy seems almost hellbent on getting to the Gull, not that James blames her, he certainly needs a drink or five after _that_.

They’re all but alone when they finally do get there, just them, Duke, and George nursing a pint in a far corner. Duke opens his mouth to give them what’s probably a warm welcome, but he must notice Lucy’s expression, or perhaps he smells the sadness and pain coming off them, because what comes out instead is: “The usual? Or should I break out the vodka and whiskey?”

“Pretty sure this calls for vodka and whiskey,” Lucy hasn’t spoken a word since they left the Holloway house, and he’s not sure she’s about to anytime soon.

Duke doesn’t question him, just gets out a row of shot glasses and starts pouring. James doesn’t even get a chance to touch them, Lucy picking them up and downing them as fast as Duke can pour, like it’s a race.

“God,” Lucy hasn’t been crying, but you wouldn’t know from the sound of her voice, cracked and hoarse and full of too much sorrow; if the bar stools allowed it he’s pretty sure she’d be huddled up.

“Bad?” Duke pours more shots, and at least James manages to steal a few before Lucy downs them.

The vodka burns, but it’s good. “Worse,” he answers. Not wanting to get into it any more than that. What happened there, he shudders, it’s too horrible to speak of. Maybe if Lucy had gotten there soon enough to talk everyone down, maybe if they’d gotten there even sooner James would have been able to break the unintentional bond Roland was forging. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

James knows it’s human nature to focus on what might have been, but it feels crass and less than useless in the face of two dead girls and their dead mother. It makes him grateful that his own mother is alive and well, if clearly as shell shocked as he is.

“You’d let me know if you needed anything right?” Duke’s voice is low, as if there’s a chance of someone overhearing his act of kindness; but James knows he cares. Thanks to Duke and the Gull they’ve helped more supernatural than they would have with Garland and Nathan alone.

Lucy’s smile isn’t even there. “I know you would Crocker,” she downs a vodka. “But all I need right now are drinks.” James had been surprised the first time Lucy had dragged him to the Gull after they’d first worked together, _‘to remind yourself that it’s_ done _,’_ she’d told him, _‘that it’s over with.’_ , but now he sees the virtue in it.

And well, if at the moment his mom seems intent on drinking herself into unconsciousness, he can’t exactly blame her.

Eventually though Duke weens them off the shots and onto their usual beers. Teasing out, word by word, what happened, and the pain accompanying it. Duke starts to look like he’s longing for the bottle too, and James finds himself biting back what might be a real smile.

“Neither of you are staying alone tonight,” Duke’s tone is firm. “With me, each other, fuck, call up Garland, but don’t be alone.” Fierce warmth fills Duke’s voice. “Something like that,” he lets out a shuddering breath. “You need to have proof someone cares.” It makes James wonder what Duke went through, certainly more than he and Lucy have.

He nods though, knowing at the very least he’s not leaving his mom’s side, not when she might need him.

“Keep this up and people’ll start thinking you care Crocker,” Lucy’s hand reaches out to touch Duke’s however, her own silent thanks for his care.

Still Duke rolls his eyes. “That’ll be the day Ripley, that’ll be the day.”

-

James takes a deep breath, snow crunching under his boots as he walks up to an old familiar house.

“Are you sure about this?” Jennifer has to jog to keep up with him, and he slows his steps. “I mean, it shouldn’t take me long. But _should_ we be doing this?”

He doesn’t answer right away. The house’s grown more ramshackle since he was last there. Twenty seven years of neglect and abandonment wearing it down; making it seem pitiful and sad. James doesn’t believe that for a fucking second.

“Yes,” he comes to a stop a few feet from the porch. “If we asked we wouldn’t get permission,” he thinks. “But,” he takes a deep breath to try and hold off the memories. “This needs to be done. To make up for what we couldn’t do.” Lucy had always been reserved, but had seemed to become even more withdrawn afterwards; her own guilt maybe for not being able to save them. “He deserves it, trust me.”

“What was his name?” Jennifer asks after a few seconds of silence, she hunches into her coat, trying to keep warm.

Part of his doesn't want to answer, but she deserves to know, she agreed to do this for him. “Roland Holloway. He was, well we never really figured it out, and apparently even he didn’t know.” Jenny makes a disbelieving sound, and he finds a smile tugging at his mouth. “I know right, it seems impossible. But after it happened Nathan and I managed to talk about it, and apparently it’s not all that uncommon with immigrants. They lose their support system and don’t realize there’s one here they can reach out too, and they also want to try and ‘assimilate’ more, so they’ll tell their kids rules they have to follow, but don’t them them _why_ they have to follow them.”

“Oh,” she nods. “That’s what Dwight’s trying to change, with the Guard.” He likes Dwight, but that doesn’t stop him from finding it...occasionally odd that he’s Jennifer’s boyfriend now.

“Right. But Holloway didn’t know what he was, only that his parents had told him never to build a house for himself. He decided that was an absurd rule however and decided as a wedding gift to his soon to be wife he’d build her dream home,” which while certainly romantic, just seemed...extreme to James. “The house got built and for a while things were apparently fine. They were happy, they had two wonderful girls, a life anyone would be happy with.

“But then things started going strange. Roland found himself...flickering, and soon he would vanish completely, except he was still aware, of everything in the house. It got worse and worse, until he _was_ the house. Betsy accepted it with about as much aplomb as one could, she put mirrors everywhere in the house so he could see, and she installed an intercom system so he could talk. And while they were different, things were fine again.”

A wind cuts through him, and James is certain the house is watching them—usually a fanciful thought, but all too possible with Roland. “Except, well. Roland was alone a lot. With him gone Betsy had to work more, his daughters went to school. At this point Lucy and I had found out about them and tried to do our best to help, stopping in occasionally to talk with him. Lucy thought he might be able to become corporeal again if he worked at it. But it apparently wasn’t enough.

“Betsy didn’t show up for work, Addie and Morgan didn’t go to school. Everyone shrugged it off, it happened sometimes. Except it kept happening. And finally when we went to investigated, the door wouldn’t open, and the windows wouldn’t break. They were trapped inside.”

He remembers nightmares he’d had about it, in those two weeks before his death. He’d be trapped in there with them, growing hungrier day by day. But knowing that there was no escape. He does his best to shake himself out of that spiral, because it’s ending today. “A week later, the door opened. We thought Roland might have seen sense, but Betsy and her daughters never came out. Lucy found them in the secret room Roland’d built, they were…” He can’t even finish, and he finds himself curling into Jenny slightly when she pulls him into a hug.

“Jesus,” it’s clear she gets what happened, and he’s grateful that he doesn’t have to continue. “Now I get why you want this place gone. But if he _is_ the house James...I don’t know if I can destroy it. The house is _alive_ , even if it’s a house like all the rest.”

“I, I know Jennifer. Could, could you try?” He doesn’t want anything like the Holloway’s happening ever again, no one trapped in there, suffering like Betsy and the girls had; and Roland had to pay for what he’d done.

She pulls away and gives a little nod. “I’ll try, but…” she shrugs.

“Thanks,” his smile is watery, but he is grateful.

He watches her strip off her gloves and walk up the stairs to the porch. James finds he’s holding his breath as she sets her hands on the door, shoulders rising and falling slightly as she breaths.

The house trembles, windows start rattling in their frames, shutters slamming against the outer walls. Snow falls from the roof, trying to swamp Jenny. She just squares her shoulders and keeps trying.

Fanning out from the door the paint, already worn, begins to peel completely, wood begins to warp, cracks appear in the windows.

Roland tries even harder to stop her, but with her being outside there’s not a whole lot he can do.

Walls groan as they start to lose their structure, a hole appears in the roof. Faintly James can hear crackling shouting from the intercom system. _Good_ , James finds himself thinking blackly, _suffer_. There’s a screech of metal as the gutters start to pull away from the house, turning to rust and crumbling right before his eyes.

And little by little the house vanishes, turned to so much dust. Now the wind’s their friend, blowing all that dust far and wide; leaving no possibility of Roland rebuilding.

Jenny yanks her hands away from the door as with a great shake the house collapses into itself and keeps dissolving. She leaps off the porch and slaps her hands onto it too, it goes quicker than the rest of the house, the wood crumbling.

And just like that, the Holloway house is gone.

He rushes to Jennifer’s side when she starts to collapse, catching her before she hits the show. “You,” she’s panting, clearly worn out. “Owe me all the food and drink.”

Something like a week laugh leaves him and he scoops her up. “Definitely,” he agrees. “We’ll go to the Gull, order you one of everything off the menu.”

Yawning he can hear Jenny’s jaw pop. “Sounds like a plan,” she buries her face in his shoulder. “Wake me up when we get there.”

Even though she can’t see it he smiles, it’s not like he feels lighter having done this. But there is a strange sort of peace, _I did it Lucy, mom, I made sure he can’t hurt anyone ever again._ He’d like to think she’d be proud.


	5. Genevieve; 1712

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for something a little different. The first 'original' of Audrey's previous incarnations. She's been mentioned in _Fiery Kings_ , and will again in _Road Forgotten_ (the next chapter even), so I thought it might be good to tell you a little more about her.

_Stupid fool!_ , anger familiar as always, flares to life in her as she dodges another man’s groping hand. _It will be you who feels my knife tonight_ , anger turns to pleasure at the thought. It’s so very soothing to slide cold metal into warm flesh, so very easy to take a life.

Marking others fills what little time she has left in her work. Genevieve finds that she regrets listening to Howard, she should have stayed in New Orleans. For true, everyone knew that now the British owned it they’d all be kicked out unless they converted to their Godless religion. But she should have stayed. Instead she’d listened to her idiot of a friend and escaped up into the frozen north.

Summer hadn’t been bad, but now they were getting into November and the damned cold is returning.

With sharp fingers she pulls her blonde hair into her bonnet before pulling on her thick coat and gloves, her hand absently pats the pocket that holds her knife. Soon, she’ll make that lecherous man pay.

But when she exits the tavern she finds herself surrounded by men. Roy Crocker—Roy! As if that man knew anything of being a true king, no matter that he styled himself the keeper of this backwater town—in the lead. “Genevieve.”

His tone makes her go for her knife, none of them are here to have a friendly conversation that she knew. She also knows they have no proof if they did accuse her of the murders, not even a whisper. “Mr. Crocker,” at least her simpering sounds refined compared to how everyone else in town talks. “I dare say this many men frighten me. Is there hunting to be done?” She’s heard gossip of a boar roaming near town, although none of these men were certainly outfitted for such as task.

Her question sends a ripple of laughter through the men and Crocker steps forward, his eyes flashing silver in the lantern light. “No Genevieve, once called Mara, we are not here to hunt, we are here to judge.”

Genevieve frowns at the name, something at it tugging at her memories. “I have no idea what you mean, ‘once called Mara’? Do you mean to say that I have misremembered my own name my whole lifetime?” Inside her cloak her fingers curl around the hilt of her knife, she’ll go for Crocker first. Cut off it’s head and a snake would only flail around until it bled to death.

“That is no matter,” anger flares at his dismissal. “Mara swore to help us, but you have given only chaos and strife. It is time you returned to the Barn.”

“Help you?” Genevieve laughs, uncaring now that there are witnesses to her derision. “Why would I want to help such an insignificant, sniveling town? What have you done for me that warranted my gratitude or thanks? I was all but a queen in my birthplace and here you treat me as less than even your cows. And yet you demand my help?” Touched they all were.

None of her words clearly sit well with the men, who mutter unhappily around her. Well she couldn’t care less what they thought. Still she slips her knife out of her pocket, ready for what they might try to do.

Crocker takes a step towards her and she doesn’t think, drawing the blade out of her coat and racing towards him. Around her the men shout, but they seem hesitant to actually attack her; the more fools they. It means that she gets her knife into Crocker’s shoulder, twisting the blade and dragging it towards his chest.

His eyes flash silver again, so not a trick of the light, perhaps a demon of some sort? She’s certainly notice many a strange thing in this town, stranger even than the goings on of her home. Perhaps her earlier thought of them being touched was right, just not in the head. Yet one more reason she shouldn’t have come to this town; it must be the Devil’s own place.

Arms finally grab her shoulders and pull her away from Crocker. And she watches as he pulls the knife out of his shoulder with a grimace, the wound healing right before her eyes. “Demon,” she spits at him. “Son of a whore.”

The slap she’d half expected, but what she couldn’t ever have expected was the much larger _crack_ that echoed at the same time around the town. Turning her head to spit out the blood in her mouth she saw that the side of the inn had its boards all shattered and broken. Easily repaired, but it would take time a distant part of her noted.

“Roy,” one of the men holding her speaks a note of warning in his voice.

“I know Teagues,” turning back to glare at him she sees his eyes are closed and he’s taking deep breaths. “I forgot myself.”

A laugh leaves her, something about that wildly amusing. ‘Forgot himself’ as if he had the slightest idea what he was. “Gag her,” Crocker’s voice sounds almost tired. “I think it’s time we put her back where she came from.”

Yet even more madness, although this of an ilk she finds she does not like. She struggles as they gag her, hands uselessly beating against their, obvious now, inhuman strength. But her struggles are only for show, a distraction to cover her true goal: another knife. She manages to take one from Abraham Teagues, who’d always been so polite with her; yet clearly a wolf in sheep’s clothing, just like the rest of the town.

She slides it up her sleeve, still pretending to struggle as they begin dragging her towards the woods. “Where are you taking me?” She demands, if muffled, her struggles becoming a bit more real, even with the comforting weight of the knife. More used to swamps and bayous she’s avoided the woods, something about them frightening her.

“Not that it truly matters, for you’ll forget it soon enough,” something about those words send a bolt of true fear through her. “But the Barn. And there you shall remain for a good while yet.” Deeper into the woods the go.

Finally they reach a small clearing, where there was indeed a barn, one so ramshackled and ruined she finds herself laughing again, how would such a place hold her? It would collapse around her if she breathed too hard.

But the laughter soon dies away when she sees a man standing next to the doors. “Traitor,” she screams at Howard in French through the gag. “I’ll tear out your heart with my bare hands for this.” How _dare_ he be a part of this, she’d _trusted_ him and he’d been in on this...this...she couldn’t even begin to comprehend what it was.

His expression remains impassive, as if he doesn’t understand her at all. “Mara Haven, Guardian Lar of this place,” and there’s that niggling name again, why do these _men_ think she’s this Mara woman? “It seems your waking time is to be ended?” He directs his question at Crocker who steps forward.

“She was not the guardian Mara promised she would be, she’s spread only anger and death. What in God’s name went wrong?”

The question gets an actual physical response out of Howard: a slight frown. “The spell she created was meant to change her, perhaps it worked too well.”

Crocker steps back to grab her, manhandling her closer to the doors of this...barn. “So what then? We’ll have to deal with someone like her,” he spits the word out, hate dripping from every syllable, he’s certainly not the only one who feels that way. “Every time she comes out? How does that _help_ us?”

“Nothing can be changed now, the spell is set. You will just have to pray next time she is not a monster.” He takes a step back and behind him the doors start to open. “There is nothing to fear for you here Mara, here you will be safe and none shall harm you. That was the covenant you made with this place Mara Haven. Now come to your well deserved rest.”

Crocker starts to push her forward, but she acts before he can get her even halfway to the doors. Monstrous fool, to think his strength enough to defeat her cunning. The blade slides in easy, right between the ribs and into his heart. She can’t feel the blood through her gloves, but she can feel the heat of it, and relish the look of shock and hate on Crocker’s face.

The men behind them give up a cry when Crocker falls over, but before she can try to run away Teagues comes up and gives her a shove, making her fall back, and back. When she hits the ground it’s not, well the ground she hits; but unending white.

“Where am I?” She screams after undoing the gag.

“The Barn,” Howard’s voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. “Here you will sleep. Until the body is called forth again…” He drifts off, and when she hears footsteps she whirls around, the knife still in her hands.

It’s a woman all in white, with white hair and copper eyes. There’s a glow about her, as if she were an angel or a ghost.

“Who are you?” Howard’s voice asks.

The woman doesn’t take her eyes off Genevieve as she comes even closer. “Someone who wishes to help.” Her hands come up to cup Genevieve’s cheeks and before Genevieve can even think she’s raised the knife and driven it into the woman’s shoulder.

She doesn’t even flinch, even with strange copper blood dripping from the wound. “Oh my monstrous girl. Let me make it better.” Those hands grip her face, Genevieve tries to struggle, but the woman’s hold is even firmer than Crocker’s had been somehow, and the woman’s face comes closer.

The last thing Genevieve recalls is the feel of the woman’s lips against her forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And for those of you who celebrate holidays yet to come I hope you enjoy them! It'll be the new year before the next chapter's posted.


	6. Sarah II; 1955

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, while I'm not planning on changing the rating of the fic overall (since so far this is the only one) this story is definitely in the M/E category.

If Sarah is honest with herself, and she does her best to be—mother had always told her that lying to oneself was one of the worst things a person could do—Nathan’s love terrifies her.

Oh, it’s not that she doesn’t love him back, because she does. Loves him so much that sometimes it’s almost like she can’t breath for it. War taught her to take her happiness where she could, and she’ll gladly take it with Nathan.

No, it’s that he just...gives to her, everything and anything; asking for almost nothing in return, except that she take control. Part of her finds it heady, and that’s partly why it frightens her; the other part is that she’s doing this blindly, this isn’t Georgette Heyer, or Jane Austen, or even one of those books she’d had to steal from the library because she’d known the librarian wouldn’t let her check them out. She’s forging her own path and she has no idea what’s right or wrong, good or bad.

It’s why she has so many rules, they’re just as much for herself as for him.

They lie curled up together, naked, his head pillowed on her belly, her fingers stroking his shoulders, her eyes watching as the marks she’d given his back heal right before her eyes. It hadn’t shocked her when he’d told her he wasn’t human; in fact she had shocked _him_ by saying she already knew; more than a few beings like him, well not _like-_ like him, had found their way into her tents, into her care. In a way it was easier to look after the beings in Haven, there wasn’t a war, and they weren’t gravely injured.

He’s drowsing, a blissful smile on his face. Yet his cock is hot and long against her calf and it makes an answering heat pool in her belly. “Roll over,” his back’s barely pink anymore even though he can still probably feel the ache she doesn’t think he’ll re-injure himself.

“Alright,” his lips curl slightly in a way that she finds makes her wetter; she almost shakes her head in bemusement, and to think he’d been so shy when they’d first met.

Despite her urges she lets herself relish the sight of him, trailing her fingers down and around his chest, watching his skin twitch and tighten as she touches him, like it would for no one else. He stretches and makes pleased sounds, but otherwise stays right where he is, letting her do what she will.

It soon comes that she can’t bear it any longer. Because she knows he likes to watch her she still take her time getting atop him, his cock pulsing as her vulva presses onto it.

It’s an easy thing now to find the right position and begin her slide down, taking her own sort of pleasure in watching his head fall back with a groan.

Yet she finds it niggles at her that he doesn’t question her foregoing a condom, he just...lets her, when she’s usually so adamant.

But then again she doesn’t do it now because it’s already too late. She’d forgotten herself once, on a lazy summer day. They’d gone dancing in Portland, by the end she’d been sun warmed and Nathan had been so damn beautiful; and now, months later, she knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that she’s pregnant. No dead rabbit needed for her, in fact it would be the height of incredulity if she _hadn’t_ figured it out.

She finds herself holding off on telling Nathan. Much like the death on her hands she fears that it might break him; she knows Crocker hadn’t really believed her when she’d said that, but it’s the truth. For all his years Nathan is fragile, far more than he lets on. Another reason she finds she can’t trust herself fully with him.

“Sarah?” It’s half moan, half question and it pulls her back to the now, back to him hard and eager inside her, and curious as to why she hasn’t moved.

Ducking down she kisses him, rolling her hips at the same time. “Sorry dearest, I got lost in my own thoughts.” Technically the truth, and she’s grateful that his senses aren’t so strong as to detect her brief bout of nerves. To remind herself, and to distract him, she begins lifting herself up. A small sigh leaving her as she relishes the slide.

His hands curl around her thighs, pinkies brushing the skin on the back of her knee, sending shivers dancing across her skin and drawing forth a brief moan.

Even with all her reservations it’s easy to get lost in being with him, in enjoying the touch of skin to skin. His orgasm comes quickly, but her own unfurls slowly; she knows how best to bring it about though, and Nathan’s fingers eagerly join in with little encouragement.

When she’s finished she lowers herself onto him, a contented hum leaving her as he pulls the blankets up around them to ward off what little October chill has crept in. “I love you,” he murmurs into her hair.

Briefly she presses her fingers into his side, absently naming the muscles and bones they touch. “I love you too.” Even though he hasn’t asked it, she knows what question lingers in his mouth. “And I’ll stay,” she so rarely does, but she might as well tonight.

Reaching over she turns off the lamp and settles back into him, as she drifts off into sleep she promise to tell Nathan about his child in a few days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before modern pregnancy tests (which still work off the same serum BTW) if you wanted to find out if you were pregnant you basically injected your urine into a mouse, it became a rabbit later on, then killed said mouse/rabbit to inspect _it's_ ovaries to see if they'd changed. Of course people thought the rabbit died if the woman was pregnant, so you get the wonderful phrase 'the rabbit died' for being pregnant.


	7. Maggie; 1928

Margaret ‘Maggie’ Collins drives into Haven, half-wishing that Howard had chosen someone else for this job. But she’s the one with heat on her back, who could do to be out of New York for a brief time. Long enough for their outfit to get a new supplier.

 _“His name’s Duke Crocker, apparently one of the best. I want you to talk to him and_ convince _him to join up with us.”_ Howard’s words echo in her ears. She’s not going to fail him, not if she has anything to say about it.

But Haven? Looks more like a village than the home base of one of the best smugglers in the states. Yet she shouldn’t judge, everyone thinks her as a flapper and a bit of a floozie, yet she’s clawed her way up through her local gang and is as ruthless as any of the men in charge. But still, _fishing_? She guesses it makes for a good cover story for this Crocker.

At least it looks small enough that she shouldn’t have to work hard to find him. This definitely seems like the place where everyone knew everyone.

But first, something to eat. Pulling into the quaint downtown she parks and tugs her mink coat tight around her as she gets out into the early Febuary chill—her heels are going to be ruined with all the snow still lying about.

She makes it to the tiny restaurant at the corner with minimal damage and is grateful for the roaring fire that fills the space with heat, enough to shed her jacket. Maggie’d apparently chosen well, since this place actually looked like it had counter service. A fact she finds she’s going to take advantage of as much as she can while she’s here. Taking a seat at one of the empty stools she smiles at the soda jerk. “Burger and fries. And…” Her eyes flick up to read the chalkboard menu. “How about a chocolate malt,” at least the man doesn’t question her choice of drink. It might be well below zero outside, but she damn well wants a nice cold chocolate drink.

She’s drawing stares from the few other patrons in her red flapper dress, but she ignores them with practiced aplomb. For the time she’ll be here she’ll probably stick out like a sore thumb, so best just to ignore it. Let herself become an oddity and piece of gossip to these...could she call them hicks if they didn’t live in the backwoods? All the attention might at least make finding this Crocker guy easier.

Her food comes in record time, a pleasant surprise, and stripping off her driving gloves she digs in. It’s good for such a small town; although she’s gotta admit the malt’s pretty fantastic. Savoring it as best she can she keeps her ears open for any interesting talk. She might not know names and places, but it’s always good to keep abreast of anything that might resemble trouble.

There are a few intriguing things, a man who’s up and vanished, a young woman trying to put a curse on the boyfriend who jilted her, apparently someone named Benjy opened up a new dairy farm. Curiosities certainly, but nothing truly relevant to her needs.

Leaving a dollar on the counter she shrugs on her coat and gloves. If she just started asking around for Crocker someone might eventually tell her, but she found she doubted it; a town this small she feels certain everyone’s watching everyone’s back, especially if he’s a born local.

Which means she’s got to either be subtle, or brazen it out. And well, anyone in New York’d tell you which one she prefered.

Outside it felt as if the world had gotten much colder than it had any right to be in the short time she’d been inside. Huddling into her coat she scans the street for a likely target.

On the other side of the street two young boys were building a snowman in front of the newspaper office, a possibility, especially if she bribed them with chocolate. There were a few other people walking up and down the street, a small group of ladies coming out of what was probably Haven’s only clothing store—the idea almost made her shudder, how could anyone live in a place that had only _one_ clothes store?—a man coming her way, scarf covering half his face and hat nearly obscuring the other half, a second man on the same side of the street as the boys, who seemed to be finding the notice board tacked up next to the newspaper building _fascinating_.

 _Perfect_ , distracted and possibly simple minded considering she didn’t see his head move to ready any of the other notices than the one right in front of him. Of course he could be mute, in which case she wouldn’t be getting very far.

As a backup she ducks back into the restaurant and buys two Babe Ruths.

When she exits quite a bit of attention is focused on the other end of the street where a man with a car is arguing with a man with a horse drawn cart. And if that isn’t anymore proof that Haven isn’t Maggie’s sort of town she doesn’t know what might be.

Sliding the candy bars into her left pocket she slides her right hand into her other, gloved fingers wrapping around the cool ivory of her derringer’s grip. She wouldn’t use it unless she had to—the splatter would certainly ruin her second favorite coat—but it would certainly go a long way in intimidating anyone.

As she gets closer she realizes he’s not half bad looking, and a bit of a giant too, although her heels help make up at least some of the difference. Brown-blond hair, a bit of scraggly stubble that suggested he’s either trying to grow out a beard or that he’d just forgotten to shave this morning. His suit is nice too, probably not as high a quality as you could get in New York, but it’d been tailored to fit him. She finds herself feeling a little bad she had to pull a gun on him.

“Hey honey,” she flashes him her brightest smile as she pulls out her gun, cocking the hammer. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find Duke Crocker would you?”

He actually turns to look at her, showing off the prettiest blue eyes she ever did see, but his bemused expression adds another notch to the ‘possible simpleton’ idea. “Is that how you ask all your questions?” Well alright he can speak just fine, yet any man right in the head should be a bit more scared than he is; a derringer ain’t no Chicago typewriter true, but it’d kill him just as dead.

“Only the important ones,” she flashes a dimple.

“You’ll find Duke over at the Gray Gull, ‘bout a mile out of town headed north.” Well if he is a simpleton he’s a damn helpful one.

She doffs an imaginary hat. “Thanky kindly sir.” Putting the hammer back down she slips her gun back into her pocket. She backs away slowly, just in case he decides to have a clever idea. When she reaches the boys and their snowman she lets herself turn around and cross the street to her car.

Like he’d said she finds the Gray Gull about a mile out northbound, it’s tucked away a little behind some dunes, and there’s a good mixture of horses and cars in the gravel area in front of the building itself. Which looks a bit ramshackle if she’s honest, like it’d all been built out of driftwood and good wishes. But the sign still looks fresh, as does the smaller sign beneath it ‘ _Come on in! The drinks are on me!’_ She hasn’t even met Crocker yet and she’s already arching eyebrows, could end poorly for him if he’s not careful.

Maggie finds she has a harder time navigating the gravel than she had the paved main street, but she makes it to the, thankfully, covered porch. There’s no one manning the door, a surprise if this really is a speakeasy, so she just heads in.

There’s a good amount of people already in the space, most gathered at small tables all around. In the corner a trio plays some passable jazz and there are even a few people trying to dance to it. There’s a man behind the bar, clean shaven, with short dark brown hair and a tailored suit; he’s working a mixer, the familiar sound of rattling ice soothing her nerves more than she she thought it would. He’s certainly handsome, it won’t be any hardship at all to flirt for information, or just plain flirt.

Slipping off her coat she hangs it up with the others. Certain in her appeal she saunters over to the bar. “I hear the drinks are free here,” she’s never heard of the like before, as far as business models go she’s not sure it’s a good long term one.

The man turns to face her, a grin on his face as he sets the shaker down and gets out a glass. “You bet, law only says I can’t sell my booze, nothing about giving it away.”

A laugh leaves Maggie, oh he’s _clever_. Also he’s the Duke Crocker she’s looking for if his words are anything to go by. She finds herself a lot more interested in the job than she’d been only an hour ago, that’s for certain.


	8. Constance; 1874

Constance wonders why she hasn’t taken Howard’s advice earlier. He was right about the sea air doing good for her constitution, even if it’s much chillier this far north. When she returns to Savannah she would have to tell her majordomo so.

But that was for later, for now she would let herself enjoy the ‘warm’ spring day, enjoy her morning constitutional before returning to her hotel to do some needlework in the common room and chat with the other ladies.

A small frown crosses her face as she sees something pop out of the ocean a distance away. A seal? It’s close enough that anything larger would have most likely be trapped on the ground beneath the waters. It gets larger as it comes closer, and her frown deepens when she realizes it’s a head; thankfully a head still attached to a live body.

The body of a man even, she would have thought him mad to be swimming out in this chill, but she guesses when one has grown up in it it wouldn’t not be as cold as it is to her. Still a strange time to take a swim perhaps.

It is perhaps rude of her to keep staring, but she finds she can’t tear her eyes away, nor continue on as she should. He’s a strong swimmer, she notes, already having made half the distance from where she’d first noticed him to the shore. She can’t make out his expressions just yet, but the way he raises his arm to wave at her is unmistakable. “Hello!” He calls out. “Good morning.”

While there’ve been no introductions made, and who would make such when they are alone?, Constance knows it would be far more rude of her to snub him now than before.

“Hello,” she calls back. He’s close enough now that he’s stopped swimming and is now only walking towards the shore. Revealing the fact that he’s not as properly attired as he should be. On the other hand she doubts he was expecting an encounter when he began. Still she moves her parasol to block her view of him. “Good sir I must protest!” she might be a widow now, but naked men in public were usually indecent—in more ways than one.

She hears a sound that is almost like wet leather being moved around, but not quite. “Ah, apologies ma’am. As my wife would tell you, my impulses sometimes get the better of me.” Too true, but she bites her tongue from such a sharp response.

“I do hope you have clothes about.” In a way she envied him, it might be scandalous for a man to swim in the nude, but not so much as if she attempted the same thing.

“Ah, no. I started out a ways away, I would have turned around by now, but I was curious as to who was walking the beach. My name is Charles Glendower by the way.”

She would offer her hand, but that would require her moving her parasol, which she absolutely would not do, now that she knew he would stay nude for their entire conversation. It would make things strained true, but better that than the alternative.

The sound of footsteps in the sand makes her turn, to see a man with his arms full, and blinking in the sun a police badge. Ah, lovely, she hoped what he carried was clothing.

“Colerage! Excellent timing as always.” Absently she wonders if there was anything that might dampen this man’s spirits.

Officer Colerage is a tall man with sandy brown hair and kind blue eyes; the whole of him painting a handsome picture. “Charlie, you know there’s a reason why the bay by your house is private right?” There’s something like a smile on the officer’s face as he passes behind her parasol to hand over the clothes.

The sounds of rustling cloth have to be the best Constance has heard this morning. “Pish, hardly enough room to swim when you want to really stretch your fins Nathan.” Which seems to imply this is a regular occurrence, perhaps she’ll ask at the hotel whether or not there are any other beaches where she can take a bit of exercise; hopefully they too won’t have strange men walk out of the ocean naked.

“And yet if you stay where you should I don’t have to deal with your wife calling down to the station,” Colerage doesn’t sound all that truly peeved about it.

Deciding to risk it Constance raises her parasol, just in time to see Glendower buttoning up his waistcoat. “Thank you for the intervention officer,” she leaves it at that, no need to bring up the awkward situation anymore now that it’s been fixed.

It earns her a warm smile as he turns back to her. “You must be new in town, I don’t recall having seen you before.” He holds out his hand.

“Constance Mayfair,” she puts her hand in his and dips a brief curtsy. “And I only arrived in Haven a few days ago.”

Instead of raising her hands to his lips like she expects he shakes it, how egalitarian. “I feel I should be apologizing for Charlie, he tends to forget himself.” Colerage’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. “But he’s a good sort, hopefully it doesn’t put you off your stay.”

Well, he certainly is a charmer.

“I can well speak for myself,” yet as before Glendower sounds about as un-angry as Colerage did. “You must forgive me Miss Mayfair, and might I invite you over to my home for dinner tonight? I dare say my wife would have words with me if I didn’t.” He mocks a brief bow, drawing her attention to the...pelt?, in his hands; but she quickly pulls her eyes away, rude of her to stare like that.

“That would be quite agreeable,” she had not exactly come here to make acquaintances with the locals, but she is not adverse to it either. “And it is Mrs. Mayfair,” she corrects; her husband might be dead a year now, but it is not as if that has changed her status.

Glendower inclines his head slightly. “Apologies again then,” he murmurs. “Now if you will excuse me I should be getting home.” She watches bemusedly as Glendower walks towards the town, whistling merrily.

With a shake of her head she turns her attention back on the officer. “Thank you again Officer Colerage,” the situation could have gone much worse without him intervening.

“It was nothing Mrs. Mayfair,” he doffs his hat at her as a blush steals across his cheeks. “Just doing my job.”

Modest too. “An odd job you have, bringing clothes to naked men coming out of the ocean.”

Again with the crinkling eyes as he laughs. “Well Haven’s an odd little town, but it’s home.” He offers his arm. “If it’s not to forward my I escort you back to your hotel?” He sounds somewhere between earnest and charming.

“You may,” she answers. She may still be in mourning, as is proper, but there would be no harm in spending some time with such a pleasant man. Quite by accident she manages to brush her fingers—considering she hadn’t thought this outing would be much she’d forgone her gloves—against his wrist where shirt and glove failed to meet.

His eyes widen and he inhales sharply, as if floored; and she finds herself opening her mouth to apologize, hopefully he did not think she was trying to seduce him.

But he speaks before she even has the chance to. “I…” He shakes his head, “a-apologies, it’s probably not proper for me to, ah, ask you to do that again, or ah,” the blush returns. “Damn, I mean,” he extracts his arm gently. “I, need to go, so sorry.”

A frown crosses her face as she watches him nearly run off as if being chased by the hounds of hell. What a curious man.

And if what she’s seen and Officer Colerage’s words are anything to go by Haven is a much more interesting town than she’d first thought.

Hopefully she’ll be able to uncover some more before she returns home next month.


	9. Lucy; 1983

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to all of my Lucy headcannons, xD.

Honestly Lucy still isn’t quite sure why she’d agreed to work in this town when Howard’d asked her about the possibility of moving.

Especially considering what she’d agreed to was her CPS job, just in a smaller town.

Instead she finds herself taking care of about half the population, to one degree or another, in lieu of her actual _paying_ job. She’d be sort of angry about it if she didn’t find it so interesting. After all it wasn’t everyday you encountered sirens and boogeymen, werewolves and oracles. Or grown men claiming to be your son.

Part of her wonders if she should have dismissed the claim out of hand, but something about James _had_ seemed familiar, as if she’d known him somehow. Of course the fact that they could find no record of his birth—yet they’d managed to find adoption records—still...irked her.

Downing the last of her whiskey she tries to shove those thoughts away, not the right time.

Next to her Garland snorts. “What’d that poor whiskey ever do to you?” Still he pours her another few fingers, the wonderful man.

“Existed,” she responds tartly, her grin easing the bite of her words. “S’good whiskey though,” nice and smokey, just the way she likes it. She takes a much slower sip, enjoying the flavors—she’s already grown accustomed to the burn, so it hardly registers now. “Didn’t think you’d share.” It’s not as if Garland’s a closed off man, except he sort of is, but he’s definitely the sort who’ll begrudgingly share his cigarettes if someone asks.

Makes her wonder how he’d gotten a son like Nathan, who even if he couldn’t feel was far too open for possibly his own good. Poor kid.

Not that she’s much better mind you. That’s her problem, Howard had once told her, that she cared too damn much. The drink helped with that, at least enough that she could get her job done without wanting to strangle every asshole who thought they could get away with their abuse; or gather up every kid who clearly needed a safe home and go all mother duck.

“We did good today, thought we deserved to celebrate.” Something about his smile makes her laugh a little, sly dog.

He’s right though, they _did_ do good today, and she’s certainly not opposed to a fling if that’s what this ends in. He’s certainly better than a lot of single dads she’s come across, and not bad looking either. Let it never be said she’d turn down no strings attached sex.

It’s just relationships she has problems with. If she were the sort to go to therapy she’s sure she’d be told her aversion to long term relationships stemmed from her everyday encounters of how badly said relationships would go. She’d probably agree they weren’t wrong.

But again, she’s getting off track. It’s a warm summers night, with a handsome man, good drink, a radio playing softly, and the stars and moon shining above and in the ocean below. The perfect sort of night to remind yourself that you were alive and deserved at least a little happiness—no matter that you’ll just be diving back into the shit in the morning.

“I’ll drink to that,” her smile has a shade more encouragement in it as she clinks their glasses together and takes a drink. “Here’s to Haven and the police chief who helps it keep it’s shit together.”

His cheeks pinken and he shakes his head. “No, here’s to _you_ Lucy, you helped when you didn’t need to. Don’t think any of us are going to forget that anytime soon.” Well the drink certainly seemed to be loosening _him_ up at least; she can’t exactly say it’s doing the same to her, but that hardly matters.

“Didn’t feel right to say no,” Haven might not be her usual work, although there were certainly more than a few kids that needed her help, but it felt good to do the work it gave her anyways.

She finishes off her drink again, but sets it aside instead of letting him refill it. And leaning across the arms of the battered camp chairs she kisses him. A distant part of her is grateful that at least Garland lives alone, not that she’d be all that embarrassed if Nathan stumbled across them tomorrow morning.

When she breaks the kiss she doesn’t pull herself away, instead leaning her forehead against his. “How about you help me forget about the world for a while?” She’s long since discovered that sex helps her just as much as the drink does; of course it isn’t all that socially acceptable to have sex all the time—then again more than a few of her coworkers back in New York had gave her the stink eye for the drinking.

He smiles with a brief flash of teeth. “I think I can do that.” His hands pull her and her chair closer, giving her another kiss.

Lucy closes her eyes and lets herself forget.


	10. Duke, Nathan; 1910

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one is actually the most recently written, as I realized I'd missed out a golden opportunity when I was writing the original 11 chapters. It was a lot of fun to write though, because these two dorks.
> 
> Also I've gone and added years to each of the chapter titles, to make it easier to tell when they're happening

Duke feels...almost disconnected as he steers the _Amphitrite_ into the docks at Haven. He doesn’t recognize anything; then again the last time he’d been here he’d been nine and desperate to be anywhere else. Desperate enough to accept the offer of a ride from a farmer headed down to Portland.

He doesn’t regret that decision, still doesn't. But after all these years he feels strange coming back. And honestly he’s not quite sure why he is; only that he’s grown tired of spending years and years at sea with barely any time on land. He’s been all over the world and yet his hometown feels like the most alien place he’s ever been.

The docks itself is mostly empty, the fishing boats all out at sea hard at work. So he’s got no problems pulling into an empty slip—he’ll have to talk to the harbor master he knows before he can truly drop anchor, just so he doesn’t step on any toes by taking someone’s spot.

But for now he’ll keep her here, he’s not even sure if he’ll be staying long enough for that to be a problem. Haven isn’t exactly his style of town. New Orleans, maybe somewhere in Europe, he’d always enjoyed Amsterdam. This is just...closure of a sorts. Make his peace with his past, maybe sell that ancient hulk of a house.

“Ahoy the boat,” a man’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts and he heads over to the side, unsurprised when it’s the harbor master. Time to get down to business.

*

An hour later he’s walking through Haven. It’s not as sleepy as he remembers, but still a much slower pace than he’s used to. People walk up and down the sidewalks, while carts and horses take the road. At the corner of one block there’s a man showing off what looks like a brand new Model-T to a large circle of onlookers. Duke holds back his derisive snort.

Passing by he’s actually a bit amazed by how much Haven’s changed in the century he was gone. Lots of new buildings have gone up and he can see a sprawling of houses far past the downtown area, clearly Haven’s been growing.

Re-adjusting the strap of his rucksack he keeps walking, intent on getting to the house as soon as possible. He’ll give it a going through, take what he still wants, then head to the bank about selling it. Half of him wonders if they’ll refuse by virtue of it being the _Crocker_ house, as if it holds some strange dark magic that no other house in town does. Duke’s seen some wild things in his time away, but honestly the reverence he vaguely recalls from his childhood still baffles him.

Moving into a more clearly residential area he quickens his step, not quite running, but he’s certainly eager to get this over with.

At least his memory doesn’t fail him on the location of his ‘home’ even if they area around it’s changed drastically. But whoever's been building the houses around it has left a wide berth around the Crocker house, Duke’s sure if he looked up the records he’d find out he owned that land too.

The window’s have been boarded over, and the grounds around it are certainly overgrown. But there’s still a _presence_ to the house, it’s stood for centuries and despite its shabby appearance it’s clearly going to stand for centuries more.

He doesn’t have a key, but the doorknob gives easily under a burst of strength, the door swinging open.

The first thing Duke does is sneeze, violently. Even his eyes water, the amount of dust covering everything almost absurd. It doesn’t help that he has to squint too, the hallway dark without lanterns—and the fact that the windows are boarded up doesn’t help much either.

Rooting around in his  bag he pulls out his lighter, making an annoyed face when it doesn't catch right away. But it finally does and with at least a little bit of light he makes his way into the house.

The hallway feels more cramped than it used to, he doesn’t exactly like the feeling, but he can live with it. He sneezes again as he peers into room after room, stopping when he reaches the study.

It’s nearly pitch dark in here, his lighter barely making a dent. Fumbling his way to the hearth—which includes some very vocal cursing when he hits the desk—he feels around and is surprised there’s still wood, and that it feel vaguely sturdy. Setting his lighter and bag down he feels around for the flue, it’s been rusted and he nearly breaks the damn lever trying to get it open, he winces at the screech of metal on brick.

Bringing his lighter to the wood he’s grateful when it ignites quickly, filling the room with at least more light to see by. Not that it helps much, dad’d always told him he liked keeping the place shadowed to keep things hidden. Which to Duke is so much bullshit.

With more light he lets his eyes cast around the room, there’re just as many paintings as he remembers, some of his parent’s, there’re a few of Wade as a child, and Duke as well. And one of his dad and grandfather.

Not really thinking about it he goes to it, lifting it up off the wall and staring at it for a few seconds.

If he had to guess it’d been done soon after they’d come to America, intent on making their way north to a place that was barely civilized to stake out a town where the supernatural could just _be_ , no hiding, no lying, no death. They’d gathered a few like-minded individuals to them and set off. Eventually making themselves minor kings—he has vague memories of his father mentioning a woman too, but never in detail.

The painful jab of splinters shakes him out of it and he makes a face as he relaxes his hands; the feel of his healing pushing them out hurts about just as much.

He finds himself hesitating in hanging it back up, and on an impulse he tosses it onto the fire. The flames gleefully leaping up to consume the new fuel, filling the room with the smells of burning paints and oils.

Fuck them, fuck the past and the destiny they’d laid out for him. He’d never asked, or even wanted, to rule this town—and honestly it seems to have done just fine without them, despite what his father might have portended—he was perfectly happy sailing the seas and being a pirate, captain, smuggler, whatever he wanted.

And he was damn good at it too.

The anger still flickering inside him like the fire he’s watching he reaches out to grab another painting.

“Sir, I need you to drop the painting and put your hands up.”

-

Nathan hadn’t thought this would be that big of a day, but despite the slowness he loved Haven. And enjoyed the work he did.

The knock on his door—a new experience, he was still getting used to not being in the bullpen with the officers—draws him out of his musings. Looking up he sees Chief Babin. “Sir?”

The man, who Nathan’s seen rise through the ranks to become the new chief after Nelly retired, gives a little smile. “No need to be so formal Nathan, but I’ve got something I want you to investigate.”

While he enjoys the sleepiness, he’s got to admit he always feels excited to possibly make even more of a difference. Granted in the long run they didn’t much matter, but the fact that they were _his_ choice to do so was worlds better than before. “What is it?” His mind starts running through the usual roster of troublemakers, then again right now things would probably be minor at best.

“There’ve been reports coming in of smoke coming from the Crocker house. I would appreciate it if you went over and investigated, make sure it’s not a fire.” Nathan’s only ever seen the Crocker house at a distance, but he’s certainly heard a lot of talk about it, followed by a bittersweet longing that it’s family return.

He nods and stands, making sure his gun is in it’s holster and loaded. “I’ll head over and take a look, want me to take the wagon?” It could be a fire, or it could be someone hoping to squat. In which case he’ll need to bring them in.

“Good idea,” his hand reaches out and Nathan thinks he’s getting a pat on the shoulder. “Want me to send someone else by as well?”

Nathan shakes his head. “I can handle it.”

His path takes him out of the station and to the stables, luckily the horse’s, a lovely mare named Buttercup, already hitched to the paddy wagon and it’s an easy thing to guide her outside; he watches her mouth at his hand in an attempt to find sugarcubes. With a fond huff he climbs into the seat and gathers up the reins.

“Come on girl,” she moves into a walk easily as he points her towards the Crocker house.

It’s easy to notice the smoke as he gets closer, and it’s at least a good sign that it only seems to be coming out of the chimney and not anywhere else.

He draws Buttercup to a halt right outside the house and frowns when he sees the door’s wide open. Drawing his gun he makes his way through the door, walking slowly so as not to draw attention to himself.

Glancing into each room as he passes he sees the dust’s been disturbed, but oddly, like the person doing it was wandering rather than having an intent goal. Granted a squatter would probably want to check the place out, find out where best to hole up. His eye catches the fire in the study with a man hunched over it, but before heading right to him Nathan checks out the rest of the first floor, just in case.

Empty, so he moves on to the study, the door creaks as he pushes it open a little further and he freezes, but the man—hard to guess height with him hunched over, but he’s got coppery skin and dark hair, indian perhaps?—doesn’t seem to notice, caught up in his thoughts.

Nathan’s eyes go to the fire where they spot a painting starting to go up, another in the man’s hands. So breaking and entering _and_ destruction of property. Well at least this guy won’t be talking his way out of those charges.

“Sir,” even if the guy’s a criminal being polite’s been drilled into Nathan—he’s certain there’s a pang in his heart for Constance, even if he can’t feel it. “I need you to drop the painting and raise your hands.”

At least he does so, an easy going smile on his face. “Officer-”

“Detective,” Nathan corrects, the promotion’s new enough that he’s prideful of it.

The man’s smile widens. “Sorry, _detective_. There seems to be a misunderstanding.”

A snort leaves Nathan as he gets closer. “No mistake about it, neighbors reported smoke and what do I find but someone breaking and entering, _and_ destroying historical artifacts.” The Crocker house might be boarded up, but it seems to be a town treasure, every new suggestion of tearing it down and adding more housing shot down faster than they could be proposed.

“Yeah, well this is _my_ house. Is it really breaking and entering? My paintings too, I can do what I want with them.”

Nathan rolls his eyes. “And I’m the king of France,” he’s been getting better with his sarcasm at least. Pulling out handcuffs he slaps them on.

“Seriously? I’m not lying, my name’s Duke Crocker. I mean it’s been a while since I’ve been in town, but honestly, not the welcome I was expecting.” Still the man goes when Nathan ushers him into the hall and outside.

Buttercup gives a nervous whinny when they approach, although she’s too well trained to bolt. Still he makes a note of it, clearly this ‘Duke’ is more dangerous than he appears. Granted his appearance makes him seem a bit a dandy in the sunlight; fancy clothes, hair longer than fashionable, clean shaven face. He’s either doing very well for himself or wants people to think he is.

“Really?” The man protests as Nathan shoves him into the back of the paddy wagon. “You could at least let me ride up on the seat.” It seems like stalling and Nathan finds himself on edge as he locks up the wagon and hauls himself up.

“You’ll startle Buttercup,” Nathan replies blandly, snatching the reins up and giving them a good flick.

Duke’s silent for a few seconds then: “Buttercup? Not exactly a terrifying name.”

“My sister named it,” so far he’s certain that Duke’s an outsider for all his claims of being a Crocker, which means he gets the outsider’s story, that he’s nothing more than plain old boring Nathan Babin. Which means the Chief’s daughter is his sister. “Now be quiet, I’d hate to have to gag you.”

Something like a snarl leaves Duke, but he does quiet. Thankfully. The rest of the ride to the station is uneventful at least, which doesn’t put Nathan at ease—for all that he was alone this Duke might still have partners, also what the hell sort of name was Duke?

Bram blinks at them as Nathan ushers Duke in. “This the guy at the Crocker house?”

“Yep,” Nathan answers, barely noticing when Bram starts to make an entry for it in his records book. “Chief still in his office?”

He gets a nod, “not with anyone either, so he’ll see you.”

Good, get this done and over with.

“Well I guess I won’t have to ask to speak to the Chief,” Nathan’s not sure if that’s sarcasm or not, but he does give Duke a firm shove in warning before taking him to Babin’s office.

“Sir,” he stands right outside the doorway. “Wasn’t a fire, but I did find a loiterer.”

Babin looks up from his paperwork. “Good, have a seat.” Duke doesn’t seem to take too kindly to being shoved into said seat, but he’ll just have to live with it.

“I found him burning paintings in the study, says his name is Duke Crocker.”

Babin’s writing slows down, and he blinks almost owlishly as he stares at Duke. “Is detective Babin telling the truth?”

At least Nathan can tell Duke’s sigh is one of exasperation. “Yes, it’s the truth. Would you like my details to confirm? I mean I could turn into my wolf form here, but I’m sure that’d make more of a mess than you want to deal with.” Nathan’s not exactly surprised that the man’s supernatural—it would explain Buttercup and the growling—but he certainly wasn’t expecting _werewolf_.

It seems Duke’s humor works better on Babin than it does Nathan, because the Chief snorts. “Just the eyes will do, I’m told they’re quite distinctive.”

Like a switch being flipped Duke’s eyes go from dark brown to silver, glimmering like dimes in the light. Duke blinks and they’re gone. “Will your bulldog uncuff me now?”

Nathan apparently reacts from the warning glare Babin sends him, and does his best to keep his features calm. “Yes, Nathan if you would uncuff him please. I’m sorry about that Mr. Crocker.” Nathan’s seen Babin stand up to the _mayor_ and yet with this Crocker guy he’s all smiles. Nathan’s lived here for nearly sixty years now and he’s never seen that before, on any Havenite.

“Yeah,” Duke rubs his wrists. “All is forgiven. Guess I should applaud your detective for being so thorough.” Crocker, Nathan’s just going to have to take Babin’s word for it, no matter how much he dislikes it, flashes him an odd smile.

Babin smiles and stands. “He’s one of the best on the force, will you be staying long in Haven?” His rolled up sleeves reveals the maze tattoo on his left forearm, it's a symbol Nathan’s seen around town, but he still doesn't understand the significance of it; there’re probably just some Haven things he’s never going to understand. “I’m sure I could recommend some people who could help clean the house up, make it livable.”

Crocker’s own returning smile is an odd one. “I’d appreciate that, although doubt I’m gonna live there, my boat’ll do me just fine.”

“A sailing man?” Babin claps Crocker on the back as he guides him out. “Tried to take it up myself, found out how much work it is and quit.”

A laugh leaves Crocker. “Certainly isn’t for everyone.”

They exit Babin’s office, leaving Nathan standing in the middle holding the handcuffs and narrowing his eyes at Crocker’s back.

He might be the man the whole town’s wanted to come back. But Nathan doesn’t trust him, there’s certainly things he doesn’t want known, why else would he be burning paintings?

Well Nathan’s going to figure them out one way or another, see if he didn’t.


	11. Prudence, 1820

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one got a bit longer than I planned, but it does have a bit of important story to it.

It would perhaps be more seemly for her to wait for Thomas in the inn, but she cannot wait even that long to see him again. So she paces the length of the yard, absently chewing on her thumb through her glove as she waits for him to return. But it does mean she has to deal with the late October chill, but at least it has stopped raining for now so the ground is not mud.

The sound of hoofbeats sets her heart racing, and she finds herself torn between hiding in case Thomas’ plan didn’t work, or running towards the sound, in case it should be Thomas.

In the end she does the safer thing and hides around the side of the inn, peering around the corner and feeling like a child peeking into her parent’s fancy party.

A single horse soon appears on the road, joy bursting in her heart when she recognizes Thomas’ bright blue waistcoat, still she finds herself clinging to the corner, in case it should be a trick of some sort. Thomas’ younger brother Adam did quite look like him after all, and was a member of this ‘Guard’ that would send her away from her beloved Thomas.

Thomas pulls his horse to a stop as he comes into the yard, a stablehand racing over to take the reins. “Here boy,” Thomas, and it is Thomas now that she’s heard his voice not even Adam sounded as he did. “Give her a good rubbing down and look after her until she’s collected.” The stable hand gets a starry-eyed look in his face, one she knows well from others interacting with Thomas and his family.

Now that she has nothing to fear she strides back into the yard, her heart nearly beating out of her chest when Thomas looks at her, his own face lighting up. “Prudence,” he sweeps her into an embrace. “It is done, I saw her go into this ‘barn’ place with my own two eyes. You’re free!”

Prudence knows it is probably cruel of her to send another woman in her place, especially a woman who might not have any idea what she’s getting into; but she also wants to stay with Thomas, to be his wife and live a long and happy life. And if it comes to light that an error’s been made, well she and Thomas will be long gone.

She kisses him, uncaring of what gossiping tongues might later say.

-

In a dim tavern men gather, coats shed and sleeves rolled up to show their brotherhood, to proclaim who they are to any who might see.

They converse amongst themselves, at tables and over beers. The conversations vary, but there are common threads throughout: “This wouldn’t’ve happened if we still had a Crocker” “well good luck finding one”,  “How did she manage to escape?”, “I didn’t realize the damn spell could be tricked.”, “what will happen if we can’t get her back?”

The sound of a gavel breaks through the chatter. “Order, order.” Almost as one the men turn to their leader standing by the bar, Michael Teagues. “You may all know why I’ve called the meeting, but to be clear: yesterday the woman we know as Prudence Ashford, who was once called Mara, tricked the Barn somehow and has run off with Thomas Brody. The woman they used to trick Howard and the Barn has been extracted and returned to her family after Theodore removed those memories.

“Now that we know the Barn can be fooled in such a way Howard, myself, and Reverend Driscoll will work out a way to prevent it from happening again. Any questions?”

The Guard before him remain quiet, seeming unwilling to speak even if they did have questions.

“Now, about finding her. I believe we can all agree the sooner we bring her back the better, it is our duty to watch after her and this town and make sure both stay safe. It is unlikely they’d’ve gone far. And considering how much Thomas relies on his glamour I do not think they will be hard to track.”

As if that were a cue from a play the doors of the tavern opened, and all eyes looked to whatever newcomer might have not realized they were walking into a private function.

It’s a tall, willowy man in hunting leathers, rifle strapped to his back. He would be ordinary except for ashen skin, shockingly white hair, and alien copper eyes.

A murmur passes through the Guard, so far their peace with the fairies has been uneasy at worst; yet even still those creatures keep mostly to themselves and rarely come into Haven proper.

He goes to the bar and faces Michael. “I’ve heard whispers you need someone found.”

Michael shifts uncomfortably. “And where did you hear of such a thing good sir?” A question on most of their minds, yet as one the Guard are grateful that it’s Michael who asked and not any of them. The fairies were not to be treated lightly.

“The wind had been known to bring me tales from time to time,” something that appears to be a smile crosses the man’s face. “But if it is true than I would be more than willing to do this service, it has been far too long since I had a proper challenge.”

“Ah, what would you ask in return?” Michael, at least, is not fool to enter into an agreement without knowing the full terms.

Copper eyes blink, bird like. “The Guard as a whole,” there is barely even a ripple of shock that such a creature knows of them, not when they join in the yearly threatenings that are now tradition. “Will owe me a boon, to be called in within a century’s time. Does that suit?”

Michael turns to the assembly. “What say you my fellows? If this bargain is for the Guard as a whole we should agree as a whole. All in favor raise your hand.”

It begins slowly, a few raising their hands, but more and more do as they talk amongst themselves, weighing the pros and cons of the situation; until all but a few have agreed; after all at the least a fairy will be immune to Thomas’ glamour. Michael gives a sharp nod. “We are not as one, but the majority speaks. Good sir you have a bargin. Is there a name we might call you?”

Again that facade of a smile. “I have borne many names over the centuries, but in this case you may call me Herne.” He mocks an overly elaborate bow. “Now I must be off, the sooner your lady is returned the better for you all I would say.”

Without waiting for a response Herne leaves the tavern, and as the door swung open and shut they could all hear the whinny of a horse and the sudden pounding of hoofbeats as the fairy took off.

-

In Portland he buys her a ring. “I know we can’t get married as we should,” there was no place in America like Gretna Green in Scotland, here there would be far too many questions. “But you deserve this, because you _are_ my wife, even if only in the eyes of God.”

Prudence blinks back tears as she slides the ring on. “Prudence Brody,” she says softly to herself, because he is right, they are wedded to each other, as surely as if they had proclaimed it in a church in front of the whole of Haven.

-

Eyes open suddenly, glinting in the dim light of the room. He sits upright, mind probing at that burst of happiness that awoke him.

As emotions go it is not one he is used to feeling, yet it is not wholly strange to him. Yet the fact that it is clearly not _his_ emotion is what piques his curiosity. It may be a talent of his to sense the emotions of the humans around him, but this one...this one feels familiar, if strangely changed. Like a tooth loosened by a punch.

He pokes and prods at it as he stands and dresses, the feeling, sadly, isn’t near to him. If he wishes to seek it out he’ll have to travel for some days. But he’s curious enough that it will be worth it. Whistling jauntily he makes his way downstairs to the main room of the inn he’s been staying at.

The few humans who spot him cringe and try to make themselves smaller, he rarely spends this long in one place and he’s certainly had fun toying with the others here. With a charming smile he lays a golden plate on the bar before leaving. Too bad he can’t stay to see how long it takes for someone to touch it, or how long would be before someone killed someone else so they could possess it.

Saddling up his horse he calculates how long it will take him to reach wherever this happiness came from. The distance of it is hard to judge accurately, but it has the feel of being on the other side of the continent, back in the United States. A week perhaps, if he pushes his horse hard, and only stops to buy new ones—a shame that his now-father’s horse, as well as those of his aunt and uncles, have never been bred.

As he races out of the stable and eastward something about his judgement of distance niggles at him. What was it about the eastern side of the continent that felt familiar?

William nearly yanks his horse to a stop when it comes to him. Oh, _oh._

A much more meaningful smile crosses his face. Mara, and that place he couldn’t go to. This has something to do with that, he _knows_ it deep in his bones.

It’s a second chance he didn’t expect to have, but he won’t waste it; not if he has any say in the matter.

-

Prudence always finds it strange to watch people fawn over Thomas. She knows the why of it, soon after his father had been elected mayor of Haven he had welcomed what was claimed to be the last of the fairies, and in return they blessed the Brody family with glamour.

Which does not change the fact that it’s damn unsettling to see everyone just give him what he wants so long as they’re looking at him. Well everyone except for herself.

But then she has always been immune to…‘otherness’ of Haven.

It’s one of the reason Thomas fell in love with her she knows, the first woman besides those in his family unaffected by his magic. Although she is certainly under his sway to a certain extent now, but that is only love.

That is neither here nor there however as she watches Thomas get them a room at this inn. It’s perhaps a big risk to stop so soon after they’ve started running; but Boston is so _large_ , and the sort of place perfect to stop over in. At least until they decide whether or not to leave the country or stay and either head further south or west.

The owner, a giant of a man, gives a pleased little sigh as he agrees to the pittance Thomas is willing to pay; and she finds jealousy dogging her footsteps once more. She does her best to ignore it however, it’s not as if Thomas can control his ability.

“Prudence.” Thomas’ soft tone pulls her from her thoughts, blinking she gives him a bright smile as follows him upstairs to their room.

The room is good sized, but she finds it’s the single bed that draws her attention; a strange thrill at the thought of sharing it with him tonight passing through her. “What are we going to do?” They’ve rented the room for a week, although she hopes they do not stay here that long. Afraid that if they stay in one place for too long it will make them easier to find, even if in the past few days they seem to have encountered no opposition at all.

His hands rest on her shoulders, warm even through his gloves and the layers of clothes between them. “New clothes for both of us first I think, considering how much we had to leave behind.” One of his gloved hands rises up to gently chuck her chin. “Tonight I can ask around to see what ships might be leaving for Europe soon, a Grand Tour should be an excellent honeymoon don’t you think?”

A blush stains her cheeks. “I think it shall.” A bright smile crosses her face. “And I’ve heard the dressmakers here are well versed in the latest fashions, we shall make quite the cut on our trip.” Perhaps it would not be such a good idea to draw such attention to themselves, but Prudence has always enjoyed being in a spotlight of some sort, and once they’re aboard the ship it’s not as if they can turn around.

-

He’s in Massachusetts now, if the way signs he’s seeing now are anything to go by. And he knows he’s close by the way the emotions are becoming stronger in him.

When he’d first had her create this bond between them he’d hated feeling her emotions, it was far too easy to let them affect him as well. But then he’d realized he could use it to control her in a way, make sure she only felt what he wanted her to feel—and how best to change those emotions he didn’t want into ones he did.

And since her...disappearance and his discovery of the town he couldn’t enter those emotions from her have been muted, distant things. Now though, now they’re as present and tumultuous as he recalls. Something in him thrills at the thought of seeing her again. Soon, soon he’ll have her again and he can finally start his long game; the thing he’s craved for as long as he could remember.

-

It’s been four days now since they came to Boston, and they’ve bought tickets on a ship heading to Europe _tomorrow_.

Most of their things have already been packed away and sent ahead to the ship—she does not envy the stevedore’s their work with her luggage considering how many dresses Thomas bought for her since their arrival.

She’s alone in their room for the time being, Thomas having gone off to finalize a few things before they left. A thrill runs through her, soon, soon they will be where no one in Haven can reach them; a place where no one knows who they are, has no idea that they are not truly married. They can be what they’ve always wanted to be and no one will question them.

A knock on the door distracts her, and she finds herself frowning softly. Whomever could it be?

Still she rises from her stitching and goes to answer, perhaps Thomas has sent something ahead, or it is the one of the staff.

It’s a man on the other side, well dressed—if perhaps a bit road-worn—with sandy blond hair and bright blue eyes that crinkle when he smiles. “Hello Mara,” he sounds so genial that for a moment the wrong name doesn’t register.

“Mara? I’m sorry, you must have me confused with someone else.” The name does niggle at the back of her head, but she doesn’t recall ever having even _met_ anyone named Mara.

He takes a step closer and she’s torn between holding her ground or taking a step back, and so let him into the room. “I dare say you look much different, not sure how much the red hair really suits you.” She bristles, red hair might not be fashionable, but she’s still quite proud of the care she’s put into it to keep it smooth and lustrous. “But it is you Mara,” he raises a hand, for what she doesn’t know.

And doesn’t get the chance to find out either.

Shocking the both of them she’s certain a gunshot rings out, the sound of it far louder than Prudence has ever heard before.

The strange man blinks and when she glances down slightly she sees he’s been shot in his side. Blood seeping into his clothes. She shrieks and stumbles back as he falls to the ground.

Mere seconds later a pale man steps over the other. “Prudence Ashford,” eerie copper eyes, which also niggle at the back of her mind, stare right into her. “You need to come with me dearest,” despite his words his stern expression never softens. “I dare say it was clever of you to try and trick your way out of your deal, but you must uphold your bargain, not even I can change that.”

Slinging his rifle over his shoulder and head he approaches her. She does her best to scramble away, but he catches her, his grip far stronger than it has any right to be. “Your spirit is to be admired dearest, but I can’t let you escape again.” The man’s other hand brushes her temple and she blacks out.

-

William wheezes, his breathing labored from where is bitch aunt shot him—she might be wearing a male form, but it’s impossible to mistake her for anything else. He watches angrily as she ties up Mara and slings her over her shoulder.

“Get your hands off her,” every word takes a herculean effort to get out.

She snorts and gracefully crouches down beside him. “Oh William, what makes you think I’d let you have her again?” Her free hand comes out to touch him and he feels his body begin healing. “Now sleep you bothersome boy.” Against his will sleep pulls him under.

-

Prudence awakens in a clearing, surrounded by men she recognizes—even if she can’t name them all. In front of her is a rickety old barn. Her heart seizes.

Two men pick up her bound form and take her towards the barn where a well-dressed black man stands next to the door. She struggles, but both men are far stronger than her. “Please,” she begs as they get closer. “I just want to be happy, I want to live a full life.” Tears stream down her face but the men remained unmoved.

“Vocal confirmation acquired,” the black man intones. “Welcome home Mara Haven, Guardian Lar of this place. Your waking time is over once more and now you can rest again.” The man smiles at her, as if this is a good thing. “Know that there is nothing to fear, you are safest in the Barn and nothing and no one will disturb you. This is the agreement you struck Mara Haven, nine months of hardship for twenty seven years of peace.”

The door of the barn opens, and she finds herself staring at empty whiteness as the men shove her in. The black man follows her in and she watches as the door outside vanishes. The sounds of her sobbing are the last thing she hears before she falls unconscious.


	12. Life & Death; Long Ago

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I actually debated with myself on whether or not to post this, especially considering I did some restructuring to the whole of the Hush Sublime 'verse (mainly to the stuff yet to come, and how much there actually is). That didn't really invalidate this chapter, but it does make it seem a little odd.
> 
> However I decided the 'verse as a whole wouldn't feel the same without this.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the final chapter!

In the early days of the cosmos Life contented themselves with simple things, giving their spark to seed-stars, conversing with Need and Emotion—their little halves, still trying to figure themselves out and what they might be—and feeling the strange elation of watching their other half, Death, do their own work.

One day that elation would be called ‘love’, but with only four beings that could feel emotion there was no need to name them just yet.

So Life would watch as Death would take their spark from those same seed-stars, watch as those stars died, their corpses spewing out the things needed to make better stars. In a way it was strange to watch Death work, after all they were identical. Colorless skin, colorless eyes, colorless hair.

All four of them looked the same; but Emotion and Need still were _different_ from Life and Death.

 _COME_ a voice, _the_ voice one day told Life, and they went. Emotion and Need following after, they’d heard the call as well. Life felt an ache as Death was left behind, unwelcome in this act.

They came upon rows of bodies, not unlike their own, yet full of color and shape. The voice did not speak again, but Life knew what was needed. They went, their little halves trailing after them. Life touched each body, sparks filling each, each whispered a name. Behind Life, Emotion and Need did the same, giving each body purpose and thought.

One by one the angels rose up, discovering themselves and each other.

Language filled the cosmos for the first time, the sweetness of it slowing Life in their work. Now there were Words, ways to describe the ways and goings of things and the cosmos somehow felt new again.

 _COME_ the voice, in a language that was not so much a language as the very being of existence itself, filled the vastness for all to hear.

As the angels followed the command their bodies changed and shifted, becoming what would best suit their selves and their purposes. Life found themselves shifting as well, although by choice laughing as they grew wings to lift themselves up, relishing in the new experience and how it felt to their body. They couldn’t wait to tell their half, tell Death, watch _them_ experience this newness.

They arrived in a city, a place to live and do their work. To praise and celebrate.

Life left the angels to their place and continued on.

Now even new stars were dying, exploding and spreading their bodies over the whole of space, those remains congealing together to form not-stars.

“Hello,” Language felt strange on Life’s tongue, but it felt good to speak as well. To have a way to convey things to others.

Death turned and cocked their head at them. Colorless eyes assessing. “You changed.” Death already speaking did not take Life aback. Language would one day die too, so Death would know it and treasure it.

But at Death’s words Life changed again, returning to their shared form. “I was curious.” Even still Life was, what were these not-stars after all? What newness would they have? What would angels do? “You should come to the home, meet our tiny halves.” Life may not have _created_ angels, but they were part of them nonetheless.

“They will not die, what use are they to me?”

Life shook their head. “They will make things that will die. Things you will take into yourself.”

“No the voice will create things for them and they will use them. They will not create themselves, I was not drawn to their awakening.”

In their mind Life saw the first Split. _This path will continue your existence. This path will give Death the power to defeat you_.

Life didn’t have a choice at all, the task the voice had given them having determined the choice already. “You are just scared that there is something you will not know. Something you will not understand.” Death knew everything, and to think there might be things their half did _not_ know must frighten—in home Emotion felt their domain grow and grow, names and now beings to feel them.

They left, having taken one Split, more began to form, filling Life with fear of its own.

Death remained. Closing their eyes they changed, only for a flicker, recalling Life as they had been coming to them, radiating like the stars did when Death touched them, before they burst. Death had never seen anything more beautiful.

“It is not that my half,” Death spoke even though they knew they were alone, Life would not hear them, but perhaps the voice would, perhaps the voice would understand and speak. “I do not understand you after all, yet you are my own and give me such gifts.” What good was Death, was knowledge, without anything to experience it after all?

Knowing it was a time Death reached out and stars died, their dying breaths throwing out the elements that would coalesce into planets, into more things the voice would create and ask Life to give spark too. Things that Emotion and Need would fill up and drive.

“It is that you are no longer mine nameless Life, I have lost you even as you yearn for me.”

Home, although Death knew it had a name now, drifted as lazily as Death did through the cosmos. Angels watching the stars as they lived and died, and yet not feeling the awe that would come with knowledge they would follow in the star’s footsteps.

“I wish I had not lost you love. I wish I could have had the feel if you in my arms be the last thing that was before Nothing took over once more.”

Now it would not be.


End file.
